Bleeders of London
by scathach124
Summary: After years in exile, Matthew Crawley returns to London to his wife Mary, but neither of them are about to forgive the wrong that has been done to them by Judge Talbot. With him in his shaving parlour and her in her pie shop, though, a serving of revenge can easily be had.
1. Return to London

_Hello readers! First off, I'm going to put it out there that, yes, this is a very bizarre idea that probably should not exist. It stems from my adolescent fascination with_ Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, _as well as my frustration with the last season of Downton Abbey. I know I'm going with the Henry-Talbot-is-a-complete-jerk in_ The Chance to Escape _, but this scenario is more cathartic for me. I started with a couple of manips on my Tumblr, which got me thinking that I should write the complete story._

 _It's going to follow a similar premise to_ Sweeney Todd _(specifically the Sondheim musical), so obviously this is going to be pretty dark (and needless to say bloody)._ _And I realize that most if not all characters are going to be somewhat OOC, but again, this is more like catharsis for me, and a chance to do something fun. Who doesn't want to see their OTP go a little dark at times, eh? Especially when they've been horribly wronged._

 _So read and review, or tell me I'm crazy. Anything works._

* * *

 _ **Bleeders of London**_

Chapter One – Return to London

The evening the ship docked in the harbour was leaden and foggy, as if it was already the dead of night. The few lights winking from the buildings barely penetrated the mist, and the outline of the ship was barely reflected in the inky Thames. Earlier that day, a drizzle of rain had descended upon the city, leaving the air damp and the streets laced with wide puddles. Tonight, there was not much in London that was prepossessing or welcoming to those on the ship. For many of them, this was the end of a very long journey, but this destination was not a happy place.

Disembarking from the ship, a tattered duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Matthew Crawley stepped onto the cobbled streets of London for the first time in years.

In all the years he had been gone, and he didn't like to think just how many they were, what had changed in this dank, dim city? Had the layout of the streets been altered at all? Did stray dogs and alley cats still lurk down quiet streets, along with half-crazed beggars and streetwalkers?

The place should have felt like home to him. The smell of the streets near the docks, though unappealing, was once familiar to him, as was the faint tolling of the church bells marking the hour. And yet he did not feel that the sights in front of him were welcome. For as he stood in the street, the recollection of their arrangement slowly returning to his memory, he could feel a chill from ghostlike shadows lingering everywhere, including in the back of his mind.

A set of fingers tapped on his shoulder, but Matthew did not turn around. He knew who it was, and was unsurprised when the person asked, "Is everything alright, Mr Crawley?"

Matthew paused, still staring at the buildings and streets ahead. "I've been away from this place for far too long, Tom. Of course my mind is uneasy."

The face of Tom Branson, a sailor from Ireland, came into view. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased to be back in London. You used to live and work here, or did you tell me a lie?"

"I wasn't lying to you, Tom. This was my home," Matthew said, emphasizing the word 'was.'

Tom pivoted about, scanning the other side of the Thames and the buildings nearby as he turned. "I've been to so many places while sailing – plenty of cities included – but I can still say with confidence that there's no other place quite like London."

"No," Matthew said absently. "No, there's no place like London."

He turned to finally look Tom in the eye. "I think it's time we went our separate ways now," he told the sailor. "I must say, I have appreciated your companionship these last few weeks. I even think of you as my friend now."

Tom smiled. "I'm glad you feel that way, Mr Crawley, because I'm the same way with you."

"For goodness sake Tom, I told you to call me Matthew," Matthew said, though the good humour that should have been in his tone was missing.

"Alright then, Matthew. D'you think there's any chance of us meeting again soon?" Tom asked. "I can't be sure when I'll be called up again, but it could be any day, and I'd like to see you again, perhaps for a drink?"

Matthew hesitated. He knew that Tom meant well, and he was the sort of chap that needed connections in permanent places. But in the time to come he wasn't even sure if he'd have a proper place to live.

"Perhaps," he answered. "If that's what you want, you might find me. Around Fleet Street, I think."

"Do you have family down that way?"

Matthew had willingly spoken little about his past life to Tom, and on the occasion Tom had tried to bring it up Matthew cast his inquiries aside. "If they're still there. Which I doubt."

Tom nodded, tipping his cap to Matthew. "Then until later, Mr Cr- – er, Matthew. Time I found myself a room nearby."

And he went off down the street adjacent to the docks, in search of a warm bed to sleep in. After years of sleeping in cold discomfort, Matthew wanted that as well. But would he be able to find it, as he had told Tom, on Fleet Street?

Trusting himself not to get lost on his journey, he set off down a dimly-lit street, heading away from the docks. As he walked further into the heart of the city, all that he remembered of London slowly came back to him. He had feared that everything would be unrecognizable, but for the most part much was the same – if only grimier and darker, littered with filth at every corner. The lowest of the low leaned against brick walls covered with faded fly-posters and crouched inside archways, hands held out for a coin or a bit of bread. Street vendors struggled to sell what was left of their meagre wares. Rats scuttered in and out of gutters and broken pipes, and ragged children, much like rodents themselves, grubbed about for anything edible within the heaps of rubbish.

So many nights, while lying in a frigid cell, he had dreamt of his return to London, to his home, where he would be smiling at everything he saw and everything would smile back. But time had caused that dream, and any hope of coming back to a home, to wither away. He had actually dreaded returning, but there was one thing that had convinced him to come back.

As he walked down the familiar roads, glancing at the old storefronts and passing by the flickering street lamps, the real image of London emerged before his eyes. He had been naïve before, a fool to remember London as a golden city, filled with virtuous people, a world away from the evils that had cast him out. But now he realized what it truly was: a festering pit crawling with vermin and unfortunates, scraping to get by and survive in a decaying world.

When he passed first by the old St. Dunstan's church, then the imposing courthouse nearby, Matthew chuckled darkly to himself. A fat lot of good those were in this hellhole. What did God and the law do to help him, after all? And from the looks of the city, it had failed to do anything to help the rest of the poor inhabitants. No doubt the powerful still sat at the top, turning their backs to those in need – or worse, having a personal hand in destroying their lives.

Their greed was insatiable, so desperate to be fed constantly, and Matthew had absolutely no sympathy for them. There was simply no excuse those feeding those desires, especially if it was the less fortunate who suffered for it.

Engrossed in his morose thoughts, he continued to trudge silently down the streets, turning corners when his instinct told him to. He had hardly been in a good mood before, but walking through the great black pit called London, averting his stare from the degenerates sitting in the road and the vermin rolling by in their coaches, his disposition darkened substantially. The world he had returned to, along with the uncertainty of what the future held for him, left him with little optimism.

He started back to life when he reached a wide street, still being crossed by wagons and passerby. His gaze fell on one of the storefronts, reading the faded brown lettering on the woodwork above the door and windows. A single flicker of hope returned to his heart.

 _Mrs. Crawley's Pie Shop._

* * *

 _One of the most well-regarded establishments for the sale of meat pies on Fleet Street was Mrs. Crawley's Pie Shop. The owner, the young but skilful Mary Crawley, produced veal and pork pies that were celebrated by everyone – high and low, rich and poor. When the shop opened at twelve noon, and then in the evening after tea, there was always such a rush to obtain the freshest ones. The patrons would partake in these delicious pies and chat with each other, and Mary Crawley would almost always be in a pleasant mood as she baked and served, and so it was a cheery place to be at the end of the day._

 _Above this pie shop, reached by a set of outside stairs, was another shop, run by another Crawley. This was the establishment of Matthew Crawley, husband of Mary Crawley, and it was here that respectable men would stop by for a shave. It was never as bustling as the pie shop below, but it was of equally good renown, and Matthew Crawley was as skilled in his profession as his wife was in hers._

 _These two people, working close to each other so they'd never be far away, were so deeply in love – their affection was honest and unfailing, never obsessive and scarcely troubled. They lived together in the flat next to the shaving parlour, and though they were hardly wealthy, it was as cozy and loving as any home could be in the heart of London. For some time they were trying to have a child, perhaps several afterwards, but even without a baby in their arms they were content with their lives._

 _But everything changed for them when Judge Talbot entered the pie shop that one fateful evening._

* * *

 _A/N: I'm trying not to imagine everyone singing the songs from the musical, but of course I'm failing._


	2. The Pie Shop

Chapter Two – The Pie Shop

For what she reckoned was the hundredth night in a row, Mary Crawley stood at the counter in her shop, completely alone.

There was a tray of pies baking in the oven, and she was in the process of making another batch, but her shop was devoid of customers. It had been for several days – or was it weeks? Not that it was particularly disappointing to her, or even surprising; she was well used to it by now, though she sometimes dreamed of the days when customers would flock to her door and stuff themselves with her good pies and drink themselves silly on ale.

 _Those were the good days_ , she thought longingly, _back when everything was rosy and the world didn't seem so grey._

Now here she was, a woman alone, with nothing to do but make pies that no one could swallow. She didn't blame them for that: to say that her pies were not very good would be understating it. To be perfectly honest, they were ghastly – the meat in them wasn't even real meat, or fresh meat when it was. There was a horrible scarcity of it nowadays, but even if there wasn't Mary wouldn't have been able to afford any fresh cuts. All that was in her pies was suet and a mishmash of other ingredients that, when combined, turned into a wet sloppy mass coloured like excrement. The crusts grew gritty and mouldy in an obscenely rapid amount of time

And then there was the state of her shop. Good heavens, even _she_ hated stepping foot in it every day. Always a thin layer of dust and flour on every flat surface, sometimes getting in the mixing bowl and on top of pie crusts. She always swept the floor before she opened shop, but like the result of some magic spell the dust would inexplicably return. Overall, the whole place was dark and dreary, conveying a rather uninviting atmosphere, so even somebody who had no idea of the reputation of the shop avoided it solely on the account of the appearance.

She wasn't even going to think about the everlasting presence of insects.

So when she heard the bell on the door tinkle, Mary gasped loudly, starting awake from her tedious suet-slicing and nearly dropping her knife.

"A customer!" she exclaimed to herself.

She glanced quickly at the prospective customer, only enough to discern that it was a tall man, probably a traveller with his duffel bag, then turned around and started shuffling around the shelves behind the counter, searching for plates and a pie that didn't look too rotten. Afraid that the customer, upon seeing the shop up close, would turn tail and leave, she started babbling uncontrollably, which certainly wasn't like her at all. The excitement of finally having a customer in the shop, though, had turned her giddy.

"Sir! Sir, come in and sit down, sit wherever you like! I'll get you a pie and some ale as quick as I can. Don't worry, don't go anywhere, I've a batch made already."

Mary paused from her rambling for a split-second, spotting an insect crawling through the flour. Hardly flinching, she plucked it up and dropped it on the floor, crushing it with the heel of her shoe. _Hopefully he hadn't seen that_ , she thought.

"It's been rough for business, I tell you," she went on as she rummaged through the drawers for a clean utensil. "Meat's practically a fantasy nowadays, but I do the best I can. Mind you, though, the taste might be a bit off, but that ale should wash it down alright."

She plopped a sufficient-looking pie (that is, a somewhat stale one) onto a plate and grabbed a mug to hold beneath the tap. Both her hands being full, she had to ignore the spider dangling from the rim. When the mug was full of substandard ale, she turned around to where the man was still standing to give him his refreshments.

"Here you are, sir. It's not Belshazzar's feast, but I suppose it'll do for—"

She cried out, the pie plate and ale mug clattering to the floor.

"Oh my God," she whispered shakily. "It can't be … Matthew!"

For a second she believed her eyes were deceiving her, but there could be no doubt in her heart that it _was_ him. He no longer looked exactly as the young handsome man she had fallen in love with, but the way he looked at her as if she was his entire world was the same. All of the sleepless nights she had dreamed of seeing his face again, and now it was actually happening.

"Mary," Matthew breathed, the tattered duffel bag sliding from his shoulder down to the floor, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing either.

Both of them at that moment surged forward and threw their arms around the other, lips crushing together in a messy but eager kiss. Anyone looking in through the grimy shop windows would have been appalled at their immodest display, but neither of them could care one bit about something like that. Too long both of them had been devoid of a loved one's touch, a heartfelt kiss, or just the hope that they'd ever see each other again.

"Oh my darling Mary," Matthew whispered, holding her head against his chest as he felt her arms encircle him, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair. "I never … I never imagined you'd still be here."

Her reply was muffled against his coat. "I never thought you'd come back."

"You thought I'd never return?" Matthew stepped back to look her in the eye, her eyes which were brimming with tears of joy. "You lost faith that I'd come home?"

Mary sighed. "I wasn't even sure if you were alive." Her smile appeared on her face again. "But you are! And you're home."

"I am," Matthew promised. "I'm home with you again."

Mary reached up and touched his cheek, as if still in disbelief that he was really there, holding her. "Honestly, you gave me such a fright just standing there. Thought you were a ghost," she said sheepishly.

Matthew laughed lightly. "Believe me, Mary, I'm real. I'm as alive as you are."

As Mary stepped back, still smiling through her tears, the heel of her shoe knocked against the fallen ale mug. She bent down to try and gather the remains of the pie off the floor, but the sticky pastry fell apart in her fingers. A roach had already come to inspect the paltry food, and Mary squashed it under the plate.

"I wish I had something better to offer you right now," she muttered, "and I don't have much more in my own stores."

Matthew grabbed the soiled washcloth from the counter and knelt to mop up the spilled ale, despite Mary's objections. He glanced at the pie remains with unmistakable disgust; it hardly looked like food, let alone what he knew Mary was capable of baking. "I sorely hope you don't eat this yourself."

"Not a lot of other people do, for that matter," Mary answered. "Haven't seen a customer for a long while. That's why I was so excited to see another human being standing in the shop." She took the ale mug and plate and tossed them in a washtub.

Matthew looked around the pitiful shop, trying not to inhale the pungent smell of mold and rotten animal fat. It was astounding how unrecognizable the shop was from the bustling restaurant of years past, packed from wall to wall with hungry patrons. Had Mary not been standing inside, he would have mistaken it for a different establishment altogether. And he could not understand why, talented as she was at her craft, Mary's pies hardly looked fit even for a pig's trough. He scanned the tray of already-made pies, but not a single one of them could tempt a starving beggar to steal them.

Seeing the way her husband looked at the tray of pies, Mary decided that it was not worth it keeping them out for prospective customers. She grabbed the ends of the tray and, opening the door to the street, lobbed everything out onto the cobblestones, both tray and pies.

"Who was I fooling? Nobody comes near this place anymore." Mary slammed the door shut and locked it. "I'm not helping myself by making pies that might as well be baked with shit."

"What's happened, Mary?" asked Matthew. "Is there a meat shortage in London?"

"Meat shortage, money shortage, good luck shortage – probably all of those at once," Mary sighed. She flicked a bug off the countertop, then began to pick up her bowls and knives and dump them in the washtub on the floor. "I haven't gotten my hands on a cut of fresh meat for a long time. Even the animals on the street aren't decent enough to go into a pie."

Matthew shook his head in dismay. "So all of your devoted customers abandoned you?"

"I can't blame them," Mary shrugged. "Either I've don't make any pies or what goes into them is revolting to even look at. They're probably the worst pies in London."

She gestured outside the window. "Down the street, not too far off, there's another pie shop run by a Miss Swire. Her business is good – at least, she gets more customers than I do." She frowned, a peculiar thought coming into her head. "Though it is a bit odd …"

"What?" Matthew asked.

"Haven't heard many cats lately," Mary said.

She and Matthew shared a look of revulsion at the thought of cat meat served up in a pie. The idea sounded only marginally better than baking festering suet into moulting pastry, but even if she was desperate for business, Mary decided it wasn't worth chasing a cat up and down Fleet Street and being able to make only a few pies – if one of the little mongrels could actually be caught.

"Come with me, darling," Mary said to Matthew. "Let's go to the flat, put something together that a human being can actually swallow."

Matthew followed Mary outside to the yard behind the pie shop and up the stairs. The landing on the second story led to two doors; one was the entrance to the little flat they had once shared, the flat that used to hold happy memories and dreams of a family. Matthew did not imagine it would be in the same state as he remembered it – clean and cozy and full of light – but now that he had returned perhaps he and Mary could bring it back to the way it was before, or very nearly. Perhaps they could piece together a life, not exactly as before, but something more substantial than what either of them had been living for the past few years.

Next to the other door was a barber's pole, the glass so caked on with dirt that the colours could barely be seen. There used to be a sign over that door as well, but it was gone – Mary must have removed it when she figured he wouldn't be back. From what he could see of the inside from the landing, Matthew saw that it was almost entirely bare.

Mary unlocked the door to the flat and motioned for Matthew to come in. "You should try and get a fire started, warm your bones. I'll see what I can—"

"No, not yet," Matthew objected gently. "Sit by me for a little while. Tell me what has happened all these years that we've been apart."

Mary froze, wringing her hands. "I don't know if I should," she said, "for your sake. It's so horrible to think about, and you've only just come back."

"I have to know," Matthew insisted. "I've waited for so many years, waited and wondered why we were brought to this. Please, tell me."

After a long moment of silence, Mary gestured to the set of chairs in front of the fireplace. "Alright then. I'll tell you everything. But none of it is going to be pleasant."


	3. Mary's Tale

_I'm so happy that this is getting good feedback already. I wasn't sure how good of an idea this was, but I think it is worth continuing, if only to see Mary and Matthew go sadistically crazy :}_

 _ **Trigger Warning: Mentions of rape/sexual assault**_

* * *

Chapter Three – Mary's Tale

Silence hung over the little flat for a few moments. Mary stood at the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil for tea, since she reckoned she might need a cuppa fairly soon. Matthew managed to get a fire started, and for the first time in a long while it seemed that the flat might finally be filled with warmth again. It felt strange to both of them that they were home together, but it felt right at the same time. It was a day both of them had waited for, even with only so much certainty that it would come about.

Matthew sat by the fire as he waited for Mary, leaning forward in his chair with his hands steepled beneath his chin. He knew that whatever Mary had to tell him about how she had come to such a dismal predicament would be far worse than unpleasant. He had the sense that a horrific wrong had been done to her: it was a feeling he had carried since he had been thrown onto the ship that transported him out of England. She was alone for so many years, and now almost completely destitute. Matthew was already fuming with anger at the thought that someone might have done something to Mary to leave her in this state – and he had his suspicions about who that might be.

Mary came to the fire carrying a tray with a teapot, two empty cups, and, rather an unexpected accompaniment, a tumbler of gin.

"Thought you might need it," Mary said to Matthew. She sat down in the chair across from him. "You're surely going to need it by the time we've finished here."

Matthew swallowed hard, wondering if he ought to reach for the tumbler of gin right now. "You mean with telling me what has happened since … since I was sent away."

Mary nodded. _Where to start?_ she wondered.

She knew most of Matthew's side of the story. She would never forget the day she and Matthew were out at the market, strolling past the stalls without a care in the world. She could even remember what the weather was like that day – so sunny and bright that it felt that they weren't in the heart of London. Everyone seemed so cheerful, their lives were serene.

She'd never have a shock so great as when she found Matthew being wrenched away from her by two constables, watching helplessly as he was dragged away without an explanation. That last time she had seen his face, bewildered and pleading uselessly, was etched forever in her mind.

"I'm guessing you have no idea as to why you were … sent away," Mary said.

Matthew nodded slowly. "I've pondered the reason so many times in my head, but I could never find it. We had no debts. I was never in trouble with another man, at least not enough to warrant an arrest." He smirked slightly, but he grew solemn again immediately. "I spent so many nights lying awake, wondering if it was a mistake, or if _I_ had made a mistake without realizing it."

"Well, the thing is," Mary said cautiously, "there really wasn't a genuine reason. You committed no crime yourself."

Matthew's breath stalled in his throat, though he had always known, deep down, that his imprisonment was wrongful. "Then … why was I locked up?"

He could see Mary hesitate to tell him. She knew the reason, but she couldn't bring herself to say what it was to him yet. She stared at the teapot sitting in front of her, wringing her skirt with her flour-speckled hands.

"Please, tell me Mary," Matthew entreated. "Whatever you know of this matter, you must tell me. I've been kept in the dark for too long."

Mary finally looked up. "I'm sorry, I – I don't like thinking about it. It's too horrible, even after all these years."

"But will you explain it to me?"

Mary leaned forward, and in a raspy whisper, as though afraid someone might hear her, she said, "It was Judge Talbot's doing."

Matthew was startled by this dreadful reveal, and yet at the same time it seemed that the answer had been known to him all along. "What?" he replied breathlessly.

"He was there, that day at the market, watching us," Mary described, her eyes wide as if seeing the sight before her. "With Beadle Gillingham. It was on Judge Talbot's orders that the police arrested you then. I knew he had something to do with it because, a few moments later, he came over to me and said, 'I'm so very sorry.'" Her voice cracked as she repeated the words had made her shudder upon hearing them. "I just _knew_ that he had done something, but I didn't know why. And when I went to him and tried to plead for your release, he said there was nothing he could do about it. By then, you were already at sea."

"But why did he do it?" Matthew asked, even though he dreaded to know.

Mary shook her head. "He never told me exactly why. He kept saying things like, 'you'll be better off without him,' and, 'I'll be here, if you ever need somebody to care for you.' But I promise, I never believed that you were gone forever, or that you had done something wrong."

"I know you wouldn't," Matthew assured her.

"After you were sent away, I tried my best to keep business going as usual. But it was so hard. I was dreadfully confused, and lost, and afraid for you. I had no clue where they sent you to, since nobody could divulge that sort of information even to me. People would see your barber shop closed and ask after you, and I'd barely be able to hold back my tears." Even now Mary looked close to weeping from remembering those painful times, but she cleared her throat and went on. "Still, things hadn't gone downhill just then. Even without customers in the barber shop I could still manage to pay the rent and keep the flat warm every night."

"So what happened that made business so tough for you?" Matthew asked.

"Judge Talbot," Mary said shortly. "It's a long story as to how business eventually went bad, but he's the catalyst. If it weren't for him there'd still be customers lined up outside right now for a pie."

Mary grabbed her teacup and swallowed most of the contents in one gulp. Matthew anticipated she'd need the gin as well and pushed the tumbler towards her.

"When I went to him first he didn't tell me why he had ordered your arrest and sentenced you to penal transportation. But only a few days afterwards, I began to pick up the real reason."

"And what was that reason?"

Mary paled significantly, her skin almost grey. "He was after me. He wanted me for himself."

Matthew's face too lost nearly all colour at hearing this revelation. It was shocking to hear, and yet it was not something he found to be improbable or unfounded. Judge Talbot was not a stranger to the Crawleys. He had come to the pie shop every so often, not so frequently that anybody would have suspected that he was trying to catch Mary's attention. He was courteous, charming, well-regarded, and no one suspected him of immorality – after all, he was a man of justice. But that reputation must have protected him, made him feel invincible while he lusted after Mary, his desires unbeknownst to anybody else.

How could Matthew not have understood it before? It was now clear to him that he had been arrested and exiled so that there would be no competition for Mary's heart. And it was all Judge Talbot's doing, the very same man who decided Matthew's sentence.

"So, with you gone," Mary continued haltingly, "he started coming to the pie shop more often. If it wasn't him, then it was Beadle Gillingham. And they didn't always come in for a pie or a pint of ale. But every night, there'd be a flower on the countertop."

There was no need to explain the Judge's intentions with the daily flower. "Did either of them believe you'd so quickly give in to such advances?" Matthew asked brusquely.

"I don't know what they believed," Mary replied, equally curt, "but I promise you I never gave Judge Talbot cause to pursue me. Each day that flower would go out to the bin with all the other rubbish. I'd tell both of them to leave the shop if they weren't going to buy a meal like a proper customer, but the next day one of them would be back to nudge and wheedle."

"How long did this go on for?"

Mary sighed. "A couple of weeks. I tried my best to keep the shop going like nothing was wrong, but seeing that flower reminded me of what I had lost, and what's more people were taking advantage of that. How could they not realize that I was heartbroken?"

"It was selfish of them," Matthew agreed, "selfish and cruel. You didn't deserve to be bothered, and they should have seen it."

"But they didn't," Mary said, "and they didn't stop. Even when I closed the shop early, just to have a bit of time to myself, I'd still see them through the window, watching me from across the street." She gestured to the wide window in the flat that looked out onto Fleet Street. "Eventually, I didn't even want to leave the flat. I was afraid I'd see them outside, following me. Beadle Gillingham wasn't so bad to deal with – I could tell he was working on orders – but the Judge, _he_ was the one that I never wanted to see again."

Matthew's own hands were trembling with rage. "That … that vulture!" he hissed. "First he sends me down south so he's rid of me, then he stalks you incessantly. If that is how he courts women …"

He and Mary shared a disgusted glance.

"At one point I sent him a letter. I wrote that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not romance me in the slightest, that his efforts to beguile me were going to waste. I hoped I was being firm enough and he'd understand that I did not want his attention, especially so soon after you had been arrested. It seemed to work, at least for a while."

"Did he continue to pursue you?" Matthew asked.

Mary's face became even whiter, as though she were being confronted by a ghost. "Worse," she whispered hoarsely. "What he did then was much worse."

* * *

 _Close to midnight, Mary heard a series of knocks on the door._

 _Curious, and slightly frightened, she set down her needlework and went to the door. Instead of drawing back the bolt, she lifted a corner of the curtain she had hung over the glass panes for privacy. To her utmost revulsion, she was met with the face of Beadle Gillingham._

" _Good evening, Mrs Cr—" he began to say._

 _Mary let the curtain fall and obscure the face in the glass. "Go away," she spat._

" _Please open the door, Mrs Crawley," the Beadle begged, his voice muffled through the door. "I have an important message from the Judge."_

" _I don't care." Mary turned away from the door, but the reverberation of more frantic pounding halted her._

" _Mrs Crawley, the Judge ordered me to tell you – if you don't listen to me, he'll have to arrest you for disobeying a Judge's will."_

 _Mary whirled back around to the door and threw aside the curtain. "He'll have me arrested, will he? Like he had my husband arrested?"_

" _Please, listen to me Mary," the Beadle said, ignoring the loathing on Mary's face at hearing him address her by her first name. "The Judge, he wants you to come straight to his house tonight. He wants to apologize for the distress he has caused you these past few weeks—"_

" _I'm sure he does," Mary replied bluntly._

" _He blames himself, ma'am, in all sincerity," Beadle Gillingham continued. "He wishes you to come to his house so that he may offer up his apology in person. Let the man repent, and then he will let you be."_

 _Mary was in no mood to indulge the Judge's wishes or see him ever again, but she was tired of chasing him away. His promise of letting her be as long as she went to hear him in person was tempting. If he was out of her life for good, she could grieve in peace. She would never forgive him for personally sentencing her husband, but it he was contrite for pursuing her, that would be enough for her._

 _She threw a shawl over her shoulders, then unlocked the door. "Alright then, I'll go with you. But I don't want him to keep me for longer than a half-hour."_

" _I assure you, he will be brief," the Beadle said, smiling. "The more succinct the apology, the more sincere."_

 _Mary locked the flat door behind her, shuddering from the night air – or was it something else, she wondered vaguely._

 _The gas lamps were still alight as she and Beadle Gillingham trotted down the near-empty streets towards the Judge's large house. Rain began to drizzle down, making the pavement smell damp and casting a mist gloom through the air. It was a peculiar feeling for Mary to be out of the pie shop or the flat, for she hardly left either except when she absolutely needed to do the shopping. She shivered as she hurried with the Beadle – her shawl was not enough for such a chilly night. She was in a daze, as it was late and she was tired from trying to manage the shop through her grief, which still felt fresh even several weeks after Matthew had been wrenched from her. Nonetheless, she had decided to listen to Judge Talbot. The sooner she heard his apology, the sooner she could make her way back home and forget this dreadful business with the Judge._

 _She and the Beadle reached the Judge's home quickly; golden light was still shining from nearly every window. Mary's chest felt tight from hurrying through frigid night air, her legs aching slightly due to nearly slipping on the damp paving stones. The Beadle opened the door and hastily ushered her inside the foyer, pulling off her shawl for her._

" _Here we are," he said gleefully. With one hand pressing on the small of her back, he guided her towards the set of double doors that led to the main part of the house. "He's just through there."_

 _When he opened the doors, Mary's knew she had made an awful mistake._

 _The whole room was full of people in elaborate costumes and masks that concealed their faces. They were spinning about, dancing amidst candlelight and trays of thin wine glasses. Music from a small orchestra and raucous laughter echoed against every wall. There were so many people, all of them in masks, even the servants. Mary could not recognize anybody, could not see the Judge anywhere. She was all of a sudden frightened, and immediately turned around to collect her shawl and go home._

" _There must be a mistake," she started to say, but her voice was too weak to be heard above the rest of the noise._

 _The Beadle pushed Mary through the double doors, into the heart of the ball. "Go and find him," he said. Then he was swallowed up by a group of dancers whirling around them, separating Mary from an escape to the door._

 _She remembered Judge Talbot's promise, that he'd allow her to grieve along as long as she heard his formal apology. But no matter how hard she looked, how stumbled and wandered around the room, looking for any figure that resembled him, she could not find him. She asked a few people, but they never gave her a straight answer, or looked at her queerly. One look at her unmasked face and everyday dress and they knew she was not part of their crowd. The head of the room, the noise and the colourful gowns swirling about befuddled her mind, making everything in front of her seem hazy._

The Judge wants to repent to me _, she thought dully,_ surely he must be searching for me too.

 _Inexplicably, there was a tall, thin glass of wine in her hand, but she couldn't remember if she had picked it up herself or if someone had thrust it into her hand. However it came to be in her possession, she took a sip of the wine, then another. Quickly she downed the whole glass, and a few minutes later there was a second in her hand. She continued to wander about, hoping not to spill her drink or trip over someone's trailing gown. The room was becoming a blur, her own head smarting and her mind growing foggy._

Sit, _she said to herself. Even the voice in her head slurred_. Must sit down.

 _As soon as Mary found an unoccupied place to rest, a red velvet couch, she practically collapsed on it. She clutched her half-empty wine glass, slouched against the pillows, one hand rubbing her head. She felt ill inside, out of breath and incredibly dizzy. She wanted to fall asleep, let the night pass like a bad dream, but every time she felt her eyelids flutter she took another swig of intoxicating wine._ Oh, where is Henry Talbot? _she lamented._

 _He was there, of course, but he was not as contrite as Mary had been informed._

 _The wine glass slipped from Mary's limp fingers as her eyes flickered open and she realized someone was coming towards her. A man, slipping off his mask, she discerned. Was it Judge Talbot, she wondered hopefully?_

 _It_ was _him._

 _She tried to sit up, but she was so tired and the wine had diminished what was left of her energy. She attempted to say his name, but all that came out was a garble of unintelligible sounds. Looking up at him, she felt so utterly pathetic slumped on his couch. But that was just how he wanted her._

" _Hello, my dear Mary," he said above the din._

 _He threw himself on top of her._

 _All Mary could hear was the laughter of the ball guests, so harsh and thunderous as if each one of them was standing beside her. She didn't dare open her eyes. She could hardly make sense of what was going on. But the voice in her head was shouting over and over,_ no, no, let it stop, no!

 _She didn't even realize that she was screaming herself. She kept screaming until the world went black._

* * *

"No!"

Matthew's eyes were wide with horror and anger. He had shot up from his chair quicker than lightning could strike, and he was shaking with rage, the kind that had never possessed him until this moment. Mary was staring up at him, equally distressed, but she had remained in her seat and had been remarkably calm as she was telling her story, even though her expression had been pained.

"No," Matthew repeated, more softly. His eyes gleamed with tears as he looked at Mary. "Would no one have pity on you?"

Her own eyes welling with tears, Mary shook her head. "I blacked out," she went on dolefully, "and when I came to I was back in the flight. At first I thought I had dreamt it all. But then I found the flat door unlocked … and I was hurting in so many places."

Matthew knelt beside Mary's chair, taking her hand and gripping it tight. "My poor darling," he murmured against her knuckles.

"He kept part of his promise, though," Mary said, as though that would make matters better. "He never visited me again. And at first I thought that he was out of my life after that. He'd had his way with me, and so he didn't want me anymore. But I was mistaken."

Having already heard the worst, Matthew did not know if he could bear to hear of more wrongdoing done to his wife. "What more could he inflict upon you?" he choked out.

"The pie shop," Mary said shortly, and Matthew understood instantly. "He was responsible for its ruin?" he guessed.

"I don't know how exactly he did it," Mary admitted, "but the customers were less and less each day. Perhaps he was spreading rumours, but I sure there was more, because eventually it started to get harder to procure the ingredients for the pies. A lot of businesses are going through hard times now, but long before that I was struggling just to have a dozen customers come into the shop. And everything went downhill after that. I couldn't fight it."

"So," Matthew said through his teeth, "it was not enough that he had to violate you. He had to destroy your business as well."

In contrast to her husband's resentment, Mary smiled hopefully. "But you're here again. We might be able to save the pie shop, you could reopen the barber shop. We can go on just like we used to."

"Mary, after what Judge Talbot has done to us, you know that can never be. Our lives won't be the same as they were before he meddled with them. He cannot be allowed to go unpunished for his crimes."

"But he has, Matthew; that's the way the world is. There are people who get away with the crimes they commit and innocent men suffer for it," Mary sighed.

"No," Matthew said firmly. "What he did to you – what he's done to both of us – I don't care if I have to get my hands dirty, but he _will_ pay."

As Mary had gone on with her tale at what happened that night at the masquerade ball, he grew more fearful that it would come to the conclusion that it did. His hatred of Talbot had burgeoned within seconds; he absolutely detested the monster for forcing him apart from Mary, for violating her, for ruining to her livelihood. The damage he had done was irreparable, even if somehow the business one day got back on its feet. He had stolen precious time away from both of them, time that should have been spent together, time that should have been spent building a family. It sickened and angered Matthew to know that Talbot was sitting in his warm, comfortable, unashamed at the misery he had wrought upon him and Mary.

"If I have to do this alone, then I will," he decided, "but I will make sure we have our revenge."

 _That's a rather fearsome word,_ Mary mused. With her hand she tilted Matthew's chin up so he was looking at her. "You won't do it on your own. I'll help you, however I can." She ran her fingers through his straggly blonde hair, which was in sore need of a good washing. "But let's not think about that anymore tonight."

She stood up and went to the stove, and Matthew followed her.

"You need a proper meal – you probably haven't had one in ages – and rest in a bed," Mary declared. "Don't worry, I've got better than suet slop up here for us."

She started fumbling through the cupboards, but Matthew turned her head around gently, and she allowed him a tender kiss. Already she felt so much happier, just with him home again. Even if their lives were irrevocably altered because of the Judge, at least they were together again, and while they were together things would not be so desperate. With each other, they'd find a way.

"I'm just so glad that you're home," she murmured.

"I am too, my darling," Matthew responded.

For the first time in years, the bed in the flat sagged under the weight of two people, and Mary and Matthew finally shared in each other's warmth as they slept.


	4. The Empty Shaving Parlour

Chapter Four – The Empty Shaving Parlour

Matthew opened his eyes to the grey morning light shining in from the window, his arm still wrapped around Mary, sleeping soundly against his chest. It felt like a dream, this tranquil moment, but if he had just woken up then it had to be real.

As wonderful as it was to be back home, his wife in his arms again, he knew things could never be the same as they were before Judge Talbot decided to leave their lives in ruins. They were changed, both of them, the gaiety of their past life snuffed out. They had suffered apart from each other, Matthew in a prison cell and Mary in her empty shop. No one could possibly emerge from that state of sorrowful destitution and be unchanged.

In both of their hearts, there was a pervasive darkness settling in. Matthew himself could feel it in him, the rage building up inside of him as Mary told him what Talbot had done to her. It had been slowly growing while he was imprisoned, but now that he knew the reason behind his incarceration, it had swelled like an uncontrollable fire. He wanted to tear Talbot limb from limb just for hurting Mary – he didn't care so much about the wrong done to him, and if Talbot hadn't done anything to Mary Matthew would have considered forgetting the matter. But Talbot had gone too far, and for that Matthew could never forget it, much less forgive.

There was an equal amount of anger boiling inside Mary, but like many emotions she concealed it, never thinking to act upon it. What could she do anyway in her position? She could hardly barge into Judge Talbot's house and bash his head in with a rolling pin.

It was a dangerous feeling they shared, but at least they were not bearing it alone.

Mary stirred, her eyes flickering open. Matthew smiled down at her, murmuring, "Hello, my darling."

Mary sighed contently, her fingers tracing over Matthew's skin as if making sure he was real. "That was the first night that you've actually been here, sleeping next to me, and not just in a dream."

Matthew held her tighter in his one-armed embrace. "I was thinking the same."

Lifting her head to peer at Matthew's face better, Mary brushed his dirty blonde hair off his forehead. "You're going to need a proper washing. I doubt you've had one in a while."

"I reckon I'm a sight better than when I was actually imprisoned," Matthew quipped. "Had you seen me then, you might not have recognized your own husband underneath all the grime. Sweating by day, chilled to the bone at night, and hardly a drop of rain. But being at sea washed most of it away."

"Even so, I'm bringing out the washtub," Mary declared. "And when we've done that, and had have breakfast, there's something else we have to see to. There was something I forget to tell you last night, or something I maybe should've shown you," Mary said.

"What is it?" Matthew asked.

"Once you're cleaned up and fed, _then_ you'll see."

Matthew allowed himself to be scrubbed raw over every inch of his body until even the skin underneath his fingernails was clean. He emerged from the washtub cleaner than he had been in years, and he looked much as he had before he had been sent away. Yet there were some aspects of his appearance that no amount of sponging could revert. His skin was noticeably paler, dark shadows decorating the skin below his eyes. His blonde hair had lost some of its colour, and no matter how much it was brushed it still looked somewhat dishevelled. Irregular meals had nearly starved him, and seeing him naked made his gaunt figure all the more evident.

Matthew would not say so to Mary, but in every way his appearance was changed, hers was as well. She too looked paler than before (which hardly seemed possible to Matthew), her cheekbones more angular and her dark hair matted in some places. The years had not been kind to either of them.

"I'm surprised you haven't grown a full beard," Mary remarked as she combed through Matthew's hair, "or amassed a longer mane of hair."

"The ship's crew cleaned me up well," Matthew replied. "A bit of a rough shave though." He pointed to a scab on his jawline.

"You'd have done a better job of it yourself," Mary smirked.

After she and Matthew filled themselves with a warm breakfast, Mary reached into one of the cupboards and drew out a long tarnished key. Matthew recognized it instantly, although he had not seen it for many years. He gaped. "That's not—?"

Mary nodded. "Of course it is. Do you think I would have thrown it away, even when you were gone?"

She opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden landing that lead to the shaving parlour next door. Matthew followed her outside, standing next to her as she forced the key into the lock and wriggled it about. He glanced through the glass panes in the door. Just he had seen the previous evening, the room was almost bare, and he imagined it hadn't been entered in a long while.

"Why did you never rent it out?" Matthew inquired. "Times being tough, it could've brought in a little something."

"I considered it," Mary told him, "but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I felt like you were still in there, that it was still _your_ shop. Maybe it was just me hoping you'd still come back."

The key turned, the lock grating from disuse. Mary pushed the door open and stepped inside, the wooden floorboards creaking underneath her shoes. Matthew hung back in the doorway, eyes scanning across the room.

If a room could be deceased, this was what he imagined to be an accurate depiction. Every inch of the floor was covered in fine white dust. The colour of the wallpaper had faded and there were areas where the brick exterior was exposed. What little furniture was still inside was pushed against one wall and covered with a sheet.

Including, Matthew saw, a short cradle. Never used by them, but kept in hopes that one day they would be blessed with a child.

"Come over here." Mary knelt at a spot below the large window, the only source of light in the otherwise shadowy room. She started to pry up some of the floorboards with her bare hands, Matthew watching with curiosity.

Mary reached down into the hole beneath the floorboards and pulled out something wrapped in a cloth. She set the item down as she unfolded the cloth, revealing a polished wooden box.

"I hid them right after you were taken away. I thought they'd seize the shops and the flat," Mary explained. "Even after I realized they weren't forcing me out I kept them hidden. That was me thinking you'd be back one day, that you'd need them again."

She held the box out for Matthew to take; his hands trembled as he did so. His fingers brushed along the edge of the wood, hovering over the clasp as if afraid to open it.

"When times got hard I wondered if I should sell them," Mary continued. "I could've gotten five, ten quid for them any day. But I felt like if I did, I'd be selling part of you."

"Did you?" Matthew murmured absently, his eyes fixed on the wooden box.

His fingers shakily unclasped the box, the hinges creaking as he lifted the lid. A perfect set of seven straight razors were nestled neatly inside, the chased silver handles untarnished even after so many years. A soft gasp escaped his lips as his hands ran across the length of one of them.

"Each one of them, still here." He glanced up at Mary. "You didn't sell a single one."

"I said so, didn't I?" Mary said.

Matthew removed one of the straight razors from the case and held it up to the morning light shining in through the window. The metal was icy cold in his hand, but with his touch it began to warm. The light glistened in the silver handle, and when Matthew unfolded the blade his face reflected in it, as though it had been polished yesterday. The edge of the blade was dull, but a few swipes on a leather strop would change that. At it's sharpest, this razor's blade could cut through flesh so easily the pain wouldn't be felt immediately.

"You can open up the shaving parlour again," Mary said, coming to kneel behind him. Her face reflected in the blade beside his. "You don't need meat to shave a face, do you? We could get the furniture set up, clean the place up again. I reckon a few customers a day will be enough to support both of us … only just."

Matthew rotated the razor around in his hand, the light bouncing off the mirror-like metal and flickering on the walls. He felt Mary's hand on his shoulder, and he reached around with his other to cover hers. "Yes … I _could_ reopen the parlour."

He turned around to her, her face almost touching his. "It won't be the same as before though. Will people remember me, trust me? I've disappeared and reappeared, how would I ever explain that?"

Mary shrugged. "Would you need to? Are there people out there who would remember you and be suspicious?"

"Judge Talbot," Matthew answered, "and the Beadle most likely."

"Yes, those two would probably recognize you," Mary assented, "but it wouldn't be for long, if things go well."

Matthew stared in shock into his wife's eyes at hearing her words. She stared back in absolute seriousness.

"Do you mean," Matthew whispered slowly, "we'd have our revenge against the bastard?"

Mary nodded, smiling.

"We could do nothing by ourselves, but now that we're together, we can do something to bring him to justice. Something appropriate for locking you out of sight for so long."

"And for hurting you so dreadfully," Matthew added. "It's your revenge as much as mine."

He stood up from the dusty floor and turned to face Mary, still holding the razor in his hand. "I've come back to London, back home, to find you waiting for me after all these years. I won't allow Talbot to go unpunished for any longer. You deserve that."

He gripped the razor still as Mary pulled him into a close embrace. Like the razor, she had been cold to the touch before, but in his arms she seemed to be regaining her warmth.

"You're home, and we're together," she said. Tilting her head up to look at Matthew, her fingers grazed the razor in his hand. "And we'll have our vengeance in time."

"We will," Matthew swore with her.

Slowly he lifted his arm high above their heads, the light glinting off the razor once more. "At last," he said euphorically, "we are complete again."


	5. Barrow's Magical Elixir – The Contest

_A/N: Here's a nice long chapter to make up for not updating sooner! And yes, I know there's still some OOC here, but again, this isn't meant to be all that serious, because I'm never getting over how this bloody show ended (pun half-intended)._

* * *

Chapter Five – Barrow's Magical Elixir/The Contest

For the next few days, Matthew and Mary worked to rid the empty shaving parlour of all its filth and dust, cleaning what little furniture remained, concealing the exposed bricks in the wall as best as they could. And while they worked, Matthew's mind was fixated on thoughts of revenge.

Being in the old shaving parlour reminded him of carefree days formerly spent there: sunlight streaming in through the window as clients sat in the large chair, foam lathered across their jaw, listening to the muted hum of chatter downstairs in the pie shop as he steadily and skillfully performed his craft. And even though the wooden floorboards separated them, he always knew Mary was safe, happily working as he did. Those were days he missed, when the world was rosy, and he feared he would not live through another one like them.

Because as long as Talbot lived, as long as justice was not delivered, the gloom over his life, and Mary's, would remain. Until that vile, selfish monster got what he deserved, he and Mary could never live as they had once lived.

So he pondered and planned revenge. Over and over in his mind he envisioned how he could do it. So many ways, so many methods, but he'd only be able to execute one, and just one chance to kill did not seem sufficient punishment for Talbot. If only he could die and resurrect only to be cut down again, cycle between life and death until Matthew was satisfied.

But actually getting the opportunity for revenge, coaxing Talbot close enough to him to carry out justice, would be the real task.

When he finally reopened his shop, business would be slow initially, and garnering those well-renowned clients would take time – perhaps too much time. He had to make himself known somehow as the best barber in London, make his skill obvious so that someone like Judge Talbot, requiring only the finest, would consider paying him a visit.

Then there was, of course, the problematic matter of him being recognized. The years had certainly changed him, and even Mary admitted that he didn't look quite like he did before his incarceration. But Talbot was no dunce, and neither was Beadle Gillingham. Would they suspect something afoul if the shaving parlor above Mary's pie shop reopened, owned by a man who so strongly resembled her husband? That was the one complication that made Matthew hesitate in his plotting revenge.

"You could take a different name," Mary suggested when Matthew brought up this conundrum while cleaning the parlour. "Say you were new in town, saw the barber's pole next to the empty shop and decided to open up your business there."

"Mary, the issue is that people won't just recognize my name, they may recognize my face," Matthew said. "If anyone realized it was me, word might reach Gillingham or Talbot, and I have little faith they'd simply leave me be."

Mary frowned. "Well, how many times did either of them see your face? You never gave them a shave, and it was me they ogled at. Besides, anyone who might know you from before may not know it's you. If I didn't know you so well, I'd have hardly known it was you who entered me shop. The years haven't been as kind as they should've been."

Matthew smiled faintly. "I could always count on you to be frank."

"Well, I doubt they've been any more forgiving for me," Mary shrugged.

"But you're no less beautiful in my eyes," Matthew replied.

Mary couldn't help but smile at her husband's obvious attempt to reassure her of her beauty. "So would you consider working under a different name?"

"I don't know," Matthew conceded. "If it will ensure Talbot gets close to me, then so be it. But what name I should take is hard to decide."

Possible aliases were still circulating in his brain when they went downstairs to the pie shop. "Have you heard from either of your sisters lately?" he asked her.

Mary shook her head. "I wrote to both of them not long after … after that night. But neither of them replied. Sybil was supposed to be studying at the hospital, and Edith … well, God knows what she was up to."

"What do you think happened to them?" Matthew asked.

With a shrug, Mary answered, "I couldn't say. I know we weren't the best of friends, but it's still odd that they wouldn't at the very least write to me and tell me they were moving someplace, or that something had happened."

It was certainly curious, but Mary wouldn't let herself worry about it too much. She and Matthew had bigger fish to fry, and wherever her sisters were, she was certain they could take care of themselves.

Unless, of course, Judge Talbot had something to do with that as well.

* * *

The plan of revenge did not begin to unfold until the day Mary announced the two of them were going to take an outing to St Dunstan's marketplace. Matthew suspected this had nothing to do with shopping, and he was correct – there was someone there, Mary explained, who needed to be taken care of before Matthew reopened his establishment.

"He's here every Wednesday?" Matthew asked Mary.

Mary nodded. "Appears exactly at noon, like clockwork. Says he's travelled all over the world, 'perfecting his craft' and such. He's all the rage with the nobs. Everyone says he's the best barber in London."

"Not anymore," Matthew quipped. Mary smirked.

They rounded a corner into the heart of the marketplace. All around there was the steady mercantile buzz of the cries of costermongers and merchants. The stench of produce, raw meat, and too many unwashed bodies filled the air. There were so many people clustered together, hawkers eagerly vending their wares and shoppers bustling around. This was the liveliest place Matthew had been to for years. It was almost overwhelming, and he made sure to keep Mary in his sights.

Mary guided him to one corner of the square, where stood a platform in front of some sort of caravan. Painted on the hanging banners were words like "Thomas Barrow, Master Barber" or "Haircutter to the Sultans of Turkey." It was a rather gaudy and ostentatious display, but plenty of shoppers were looking at the empty platform with curiosity, wondering if there was to be some sort of show. It was still several minutes before twelve, so Mary and Matthew stood to wait in front of the platform.

"Is he really as popular as you say?" Matthew asked Mary, eyeing the brightly-coloured banners.

Mary shrugged. "People will eat up anything. Someone says he's the best barber, they believe him."

"Do you believe he's as good as he says?"

Mary sighed. "I've seen him do shaves. He's not bad, but I doubt he's actually been to Turkey, let alone given a shave to a sultan. They're not the sort to favor smooth chins."

"So he's a narcissistic liar," Matthew said. "Still, if we're lucky, he won't have much to brag about by the day's end."

"Matthew, do you really think you can denounce him so quickly?" Mary questioned. "He's got a reputation, and no one knows who you are or if your skill outranks his."

"I'll figure something out," Matthew decided.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure casually wandering through the crowd, wooden walking stick clapping against the cobblestones. Not the Judge, but Beadle Gillingham, looking almost exactly as well as he had been at the time of Matthew's arrest. He was nearby, and strolling close to the platform. The rim of his short silk hat barely concealed his beady eyes as they scoured the crowd and the food stalls.

Matthew watched, transfixed on those eyes, waiting for them to settle on him and Mary. His hand brushed the silver razor tucked into its leather sheath on his belt. Gillingham was so close, and with the crowd milling about he wouldn't see him coming. It would be so quick, and easy, one less enemy to deal with …

But he took only one step before he felt Mary pulling his arm, keeping him close to her. "Don't," she hissed. "He might recognize you."

Reluctantly, Matthew's hand fell away from the straight razor, and he stood still next to his wife. But he continued to watch Beadle Gillingham, who had stopped to chat with a young woman. "I _will_ do what I vowed to," he reminded Mary.

"Yes, but now's not the time," she said.

As if on cue, the bells at the nearby church began to chime noon. A young man emerged from behind the curtains separating the platform and the caravan with a large tin drum. He started banging it in time to the tolling bells, and like a hive of bees to fresh flowers, a large crowd gathered around the platform, Mary and Matthew caught in the middle of it. The Beadle too looked on, just as intrigued as the rest of the gullible shoppers.

"I certainly hope _that's_ not the great Thomas Barrow," Matthew remarked. The young man couldn't have been older than Mary, but he was rather thin and peaky. His clothes were probably made for a less destitute working-class man, but they weren't looking so fine now. Scraggly brown hair poked out from underneath his cap.

"I believe that's his assistant," Mary said. "Poor sir could do with a few meat pies," she added absently.

By the time the man had stopped pounding his tin drum, a substantial crowd had gathered around the stage. Matthew could see Beadle Gillingham standing at the back of the throng, his eyes fixed on the man on the stage as if he recognized him. Matthew too wondered if he had seen the man before, but he couldn't place where.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?" hollered the young man. Everyone in the crowd, and even some of the shoppers still hesitating by the stalls, looked up at him with bated breath and wide eyes.

"I'm here to present to you an amazing miracle, a marvelous rare elixir, the effects of which will amaze you," the man energetically called out, "concocted by London's best barber, Mr Barrow!"

The crowd murmured enthusiastically, already liking what they were hearing. Matthew had to admit the man spoke well, though his accent sounded somewhat high-class, more like he was an actor dressed up as a poor barber's assistant.

Spurred on by the crowd's interest, the man kept on excitedly. "Listen here – hardly a month ago, I myself was struck with a dreadful condition, one that no doctor in London could remedy. I found myself awakened one morning to discover every hair on my head was gone!"

Some members of the crowd tutted and shook their heads in pity.

"Oh, it was as dreadful as you can imagine. Even my own family was so embarrassed at the sight of me! I nearly died of the shame, me wandering the streets without a crop of hair to keep my head warm," the man said, shivering for good effect.

"He ought to go on a real stage," Mary muttered sardonically.

"But a gentleman came to my aid, the illustrious barber Barrow," the man declared. He rushed suddenly to one of the wooden boxes on the stage and pried open the top. "See here – the liquid he gave me to cure my terrible disease!"

And he pulled out a small glass bottle full of clear yellow liquid, with the label 'Barrow's Magical Elixir' on it.

"Look at it," the man said gleefully, "almost as precious as gold, and far more useful. I rubbed it in daily as he told me, and now look at me!"

Dramatically, he doffed his cap, and a full head of smooth brown hair cascaded all the way down to his shoulders. Some in the crowd gasped, some men laughed at the amusing sight, and a few more applauded the beaming man. Mary and Matthew stared, dumbfounded that the crowd had bought such a theatrical story.

Mary peered at the man shaking his long locks out. "That's not real, is it?"

"The hair or the elixir?" Matthew prompted. "Both, I'd think."

The man on the stage held up the bottle in his hand. "Barrow's Magical Elixir is what did the trick, ladies and gentlemen. Did it in a tick, like a proper potion ought to do."

He bent down to a gentleman near the front of the gathering, holding out the elixir bottle. "Only costs a penny, sir, to cure that bare head of yours. What do you say?"

The gentleman, whose bald head was obvious even with his top hat on, was one of the few who was still unconvinced. "I don't know—"

The man on the stage, without asking, took the gentleman's hat off and poured a drop from the bottle onto the hairless flesh. "It'll stimulate the growth, sir," he explained as he rubbed the liquid around, "so fast that you'll need to come see Mr Barrow for a cut. Only a penny, guaranteed."

The gentleman rubbed his own head as if already feeling the hairs grow. "Only a penny, you say? Might as well … "

The crowd drew even further towards the stage as the gentleman tossed up a penny and Mr Barrow's assistant started pulling out more bottles of the 'magical elixir.' They were clammering and murmuring to each other about the supposed effects of the liquid in the bottles.

"Wotcher think?"

"Go ahead and try it, wot the hell!"

"Penny buys a bottle, does it?"

The man was all too eager to feed the crowd's interest. "Who'd like a sample? You, sir? A cleansing smell it has as well!"

Bottles started to be passed out around the crowd, many uncorking them and taking tentative sniffs or dabbing a finger into the liquid. Already some were sold on the idea of a hair-growing elixir and held their coins out to the man on the stage.

"Let me have a bottle!"

"Make that two!"

Matthew glanced around in disbelief. It was almost embarrassing to be caught up in this mob, amongst the sort of people who were willing to believe anything that reached their ears.

He heard a gasp from Mary. "What is it?" he asked urgently.

"I know that man up there," she said, staring at the young assistant happily passing around glass bottles and snatching pennies from customer's hands.

"Who is it?"

"Evelyn Napier. I knew him before we were married. You met him only once," Mary explained. "What's he done to reduce himself to _this_?"

"That doesn't matter. At this rate, everyone in London will soon believe Barrow is a mastermind." Matthew figured if the Beadle believed Barrow had a bit of worth or skill, then he'd refer Judge Talbot to him, and his opportunity for revenge would be gone.

Mary's loud voice cut through the marketplace. "Pardon me, sir, what _is_ that awful smell? Are we near an open trench?" She winked at Matthew.

Her clever observation wasn't without truth. The elixir bottles were emitting a very unpleasant stench that was spreading through the crowd. A few people began to notice it as well, wrinkling their noses and sniffing the bottles even more to see if the smell was coming from there. Matthew smirked – Mary was onto something.

Evelyn Napier, however, wasn't fazed by Mary's outburst; plenty of people were still pushing forward to buy the bottles. He called out even louder, "Buy 'Barrow's Magical Elixir,' and your slick head can soon sprout curls. Even you old men can have your pick of the girls then. You'd like a bottle, ma'am—?"

Matthew snatched up a bottle from the hand of another gentleman. "What is this?" he said, peering at the yellow liquid inside the bottle. He had absolutely no doubt of what the 'elixir' really was. "Doesn't look like any miracle-worker to me?" Some of the shoppers around him laughed.

He uncorked it, and his suspicions were confirmed. "This smells rather like … piss."

Mary grabbed the bottle and took a whiff; she regretted it immediately as her face contorted. "Whew! That's well nasty, isn't it!"

The shoppers around Mary and Matthew, some with bottles in their hands, looked around curiously – was this whole thing really a disgusting sham?

"I wouldn't touch this stuff with my bare hands in a hundred years," Mary said loudly, shoving the bottle back into Matthew's hand. "Smells and looks like piss."

Now the shoppers were starting to see through the fraudulent elixir.

"Wotcher think?"

"Smells bloody awful, i'n' it?"

"I reckon it _is_ piss!"

The change in the crowd's attitude towards Barrow's Magical Elixir was palpable. More started to sniff the bottles, recognizing the stench of old urine, and they started shouting at a flustered Evelyn Napier.

"Is it really—? Give us back our money?"

"Glad I didn't buy one."

"If you think that piss can fool—!"

Evelyn was trying to wave away the bottles being shaken at him. "Never mind those people, mister. Just … just try a bit … free sample?"

The crowd, however, would not be swayed again. They were shouting for their money back, making a ruckus about the piss in their hands and on their heads.

"Give 'em back their money, I say!"

"We don't want no piss, boy!"

"Give me back my money!"

Mary and Matthew smiled at each other. Pirelli's name was slowly being soiled. "Give them back their money!" Mary shouted along with the crowd. "Where is this Barrow?"

More followed her example. "Where is Mr Barrow? Get him out here!"

Desperately, Evelyn tried to sell just one more bottle. "Just buy one bottle of Barrow's. The ladies just love it—!"

"Flies do too!" Mary shouted, and the crowed erupted in raucous laughter.

Practically everyone was shouting for Evelyn to hand them their money back or to get Barrow out into the open. The shoppers by the stalls or passing through the market looked on with amusement and curiosity at the scene. It felt as though at any moment the crowd would turn violent.

But everyone was silenced immediately when the curtain behind Evelyn was thrown aside, and out stepped the man who could only be Thomas Barrow.

"That's him," Mary whispered to Matthew.

Matthew was only a little put off by the flamboyantly-dressed barber standing on the stage. He looked closer to a dandy than a hairdresser, with his black hair slicked over his head and his silk jacket. He had in one hand an ornate but dull razor.

"Evelyn," he snapped, "what the bloody hell is going on out here?"

Evelyn, who was quivering by the curtain and still holding two bottles, pointed to the crowd. "Some people … trying to start a row, I reckon."

Thomas Barrow straightened, shoving the razor into his pocket and scanning the stunned crowd. "Good afternoon to you, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Thomas Barrow," he said, his voice ringing over the crowd. "Some of you know me as the most famed barber in London, or you may have recently my new product up for sale." He tapped one of the crates containing elixir bottles with his boot. "Which brings me to why I've come out here before I've properly prepared for today."

He strutted across the stage, peering at the crowd. "I want to know who in this assembly has the nerve to say that my elixir is _piss_!" he spat. "Who started this?"

Silence hung about for several heartbeats. Now no one seemed ready to slander the man, throw the bottle of piss in his face and call him out for being a fraud. But Matthew had no doubt that, by the end of the day, what credibility Barrow had would vanish. His fingers brushed against his silver razor at his belt.

He heard Mary draw in a breath. "I did," she stated proudly, and everyone in the crowd turned to look at her. Matthew imagined Beadle Gillingham perking his ears up at the sound of Mary's voice.

Mary held up the bottle in her hand. "I've opened this bottle of Barrow's Magical Elixir, and I can swear that there is nothing but piss inside of it."

Thomas's face hardened at the mention of piss. Mary smirked, waving the bottle around for the crowd to see. "Throwing your money down the sewer would be a wiser choice."

There were a few nervous laughs. Cautiously, Matthew looked behind him to where Beadle Gillingham was standing, but the expression on his face betrayed more amusement at the scene than recognition.

Thomas sighed, shaking his head as if Mary was being perfectly ridiculous. "Ladies and gentlemen, pay no attention to that lady. Who's to be the first for an expert shave?"

Mary gave Matthew a small nudge – this was his chance.

"And furthermore," she broke in again, "your claim to being the best barber in London is no longer true. I have with me a man who deserves that claim more than you."

Thomas looked like someone had waved an open bottle of magical elixir under his nose. "This is ridiculous. Who is this person you speak of?"

Matthew felt Mary give him another nudge, this time signalling him to step forth towards the stage. As he moved forward, the crowd parted and Thomas's eyes rested on him. "I am. I may have serviced no sultans or such, yet I guarantee that I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity than any street swindler."

Thomas chuckled nervously. "Is that a challenge?"

To answer, Matthew pulled the razor from his sheath and unfolded it, raising his arm high so that even those in the back of the crowd could see. "Do you see this razor? I lay it against five pounds your skill is no match for mine."

Thomas bent down to look at the fine silver razor, and even Evelyn crept forward to take a glance too. "That is a fine razor," Matthew heard Evelyn whisper to Thomas.

"Well then?" Matthew said. "Do you accept my challenge, or will you reveal yourself as a sham?"

"I accept," Thomas answered, then in a louder voice, "and everyone here shall see how foolish you are to slander me."

Matthew turned back to glimpse Mary's encouraging nod. He was usually unpretentious of his skill, but if Thomas Barrow's reliance on false products were any indication, this contest would not be a challenge for him.

"Who'd like a free shave today?" he said to the crowd.

A couple men pushed forward towards the stage, and two workers with stubble on their cheeks made it up. As they came up, Thomas started giving orders to Evelyn to get chairs, fetch the basins and towels and razors. It was rather odd, Matthew thought, to see someone ordering around a grown man as if he were a child.

Mary removed his overcoat for him just before he climbed onto the stage. "You'll be splendid," she said. "I'd wish you luck, but I know you don't need it."

"And I'd give you a kiss, but I think that should wait for when we're not being watched," Matthew replied.

Evelyn had supplied him with everything he needed save for the razor, but he did notice that Thomas had the more refined set of tools. Even so, some unpolished tools wouldn't put him at a disadvantage. His subject was already sitting down, and as he took a towel and tucked it around the man's neck, he asked Thomas, "Who will oversee the contest?"

Thomas looked out over the gathering. "Will Beadle Gillingham be the judge?"

Matthew tried not to let his alarm show in his face. _If he recognizes me or Mary, it's over_. It had been many years since the Beadle had seen either him or Mary, but there was still no telling how he'd react upon recognizing either of them. Mary's surprise was evident as well,

The Beadle simpered. "I'd be pleased, of course, to oblige my friends and neighbors," he drawled as he came toward the stage.

Mary ducked her head and backed away as Gillingham ascended the stairs to the platform, but he made no indication that he saw her face. And neither, even when he looked straight at Matthew's face, did he show any sign of recognition.

"Are Mr Barrow and … I'm sorry, I don't believe you stated your name," Gillingham said to Matthew.

Could it actually be that Gillingham did not recognize him?

"Grantham," Matthew answered, "Mr Matthew Grantham of Fleet Street."

Not even a flicker of suspicion passed through Gillingham's face. Just how daft was the man really, not to even imagine that this could be the same man he conspired with Judge Talbot to have exiled? From the corner of his eye he saw Mary sigh with relief, then offer another smile of encouragement. It was such immense luck, practically a miracle, that he was not going to be discovered so soon.

"Right then. Are Mr Barrow and Mr Grantham both ready?" Gillingham asked.

"Ready," Thomas answered with a smirk of confidence.

"Ready," Matthew replied as well.

The Beadle pulled out a tin whistle underneath his shirt. "The fastest, smoothest shave is the winner." He blew the whistle, the harsh trill echoing across the square.

Both men set to work immediately, every pair of eyes in the crowd fixed on them. It was quite strange to see two barbers work in different ways: Thomas Barrow had his assistant, Evelyn, while Matthew had only his own two hands to help him. Evelyn held Thomas's leather strop taught as Thomas swiped his razor blade quickly across it, more often than not nicking his assistant's knuckles in the process. Meanwhile, Matthew was stropping his own silver razor in a more careful manner.

Mary was one of the few in the crowd who was not anxious about the outcome of the contest. She knew how Matthew worked, remembered how he'd take his time for the sake of being careful and focused on his skill rather than speed. It brought her back to old times, occasionally watching him at work with a customer when she wasn't needed down in her pie shop.

Thomas was already furiously whipping up lather, accidentally splattering it over his hands, while Matthew continued stropping his razor. He kept glancing at Matthew's progress as if already wary of losing the contest, but while he was lathering up his subject's face he tried to keep his disconcertion away.

"How long has it been, Mr Grantham, since you shaved a face?" he asked slyly.

Matthew was unfazed as he answered, "Some time, I admit." He had only now just released his leather strop and was starting to mix up the lather.

Thomas chuckled. "Then perhaps you should look here, and observe the work of a man who has had the privilege to shave the Turkish sultan."

Matthew heard a snort in the crowd, fairly certain that it was Mary. He kept his eyes away from Thomas so as to not give him any satisfaction, keeping his steady pace. Thomas, however, was not yet ready to give up his false boasting.

"And I was recently called by the ambassador of Turkey here in London to pull a rotten tooth out of his son's gum," he went on. "Barely noticed me pull it out."

Still, Matthew showed no sign of being ready yet to shave his man. Thomas seemed to decide he could slow his hasty pace down now as he readied his razor. "Ladies and gentlemen, shaving is an art of grace and skill," he said as he opened his razor with a flourish and brought it close to his subject's cheek. "It is not a trade for just any man, for it requires a light hand and a careful eye. One little slip can nick the chin or rip the lip for good."

He believed he had the crowd's attention as he began, with slow, short strokes, scraped the razor across the man's face, Evelyn holding out the cloth to clean the razor after every swipe. But it was Matthew's patience that drew the crowd's curiosity. What sort of trick did this new barber have up his sleeve?

"I've studied my craft since I was a boy," Thomas was saying. "I was taught by my father, but my talent was evident even from my infancy."

The crowd laughed softly, but by now some had guessed that little he was saying had any truth. Many were still watching Matthew instead, who only now was lathering up his man's face, carefully avoiding his lips and his nostrils. Thomas nevertheless droned on like a street preacher, speaking about the difficulties and the rewards of the art, requesting the audience to observe how finely he shaved away his man's bristle, and even started to offer a free tooth extraction to anyone who needed it.

So he did not notice how, with a few deft strokes, Matthew swiftly shaved his man's face, then motioned for the Beadle to examine his work.

"The winner … is Grantham!" the Beadle declared, and the crowd applauded enthusiastically. Thomas stared in disbelief. Matthew only smiled modestly as he wiped his razor clean.

"The man's a bloody marvel," a woman next to Mary said. "Never seen a barber so handy with a razor."

Thomas, trying to retain his wavering dignity, offered his hand to shake. "I must admit I have finally met my match."

Matthew shook Thomas's extended hand. "I believe five pounds was the bet?"

"Yes, of course," Thomas answered bitterly. He pulled out a small coin purse from his jacket and counted out the money into Matthew's hand. "Good luck to you sir, until we meet again."

He spun around and stormed behind the curtain, shouting for Evelyn to follow him. From inside, there was muffled cursing and blaming Evelyn's incompetence for the defeat.

"You were marvelous, darling," Mary said as Matthew dismounted the platform. "Even after all these years you still have it in you."

Matthew glanced back at the curtain. "Do you think he'll retire now that he's been exposed as a fraud."

Mary shrugged. "Perhaps he'll set up shop somewhere else. But I hope Mr Napier doesn't follow him wherever he goes. I don't like seeing a grown man treated like some slave with no will of his own."

Matthew turned around at feeling a light tap on his shoulder. "Congratulations, Mr Grantham," said a well-dressed gentlemen. "May I ask, although you are new in town, do you have your own establishment here in London?"

"He certainly does," Mary answered for him. She replaced Matthew's coat around his shoulders. "Mr Grantham's Shaving and Tonsorial Parlour, above my meat-pie shop on Fleet Street."

"Above the pie shop, you say?" the gentleman said. "I do recall there being another shaving parlour there a long time ago."

"The barber's pole was already there," Matthew replied, "so it seemed a convenient place to set up shop."

The Beadle was nearby, and almost immediately after the gentleman moved away did he stroll towards Mary and Matthew. "Good afternoon to you, Mr Grantham, and … Mrs Crawley. This is a pleasant surprise, seeing you out and about."

"I'm sure," Mary replied coolly.

Matthew could sense that, at this moment, Mary was more likely to grab for his razor and cut the Beadle to ribbons. He held onto her arm and said, as civilly as he could, "Thank you sir, for overseeing that contest fairly."

Tony Gillingham waved off the compliment. "I try to do my best for my friends and neighbors. It is my duty to be fair, after all." He stopped suddenly, squinting at Matthew's face. "Strange … I beg your pardon Mr Grantham, but your face seemed familiar to me."

Mary forced out a laugh. "I doubt you know _him_ , what with him having always lived in Manchester. Only just arrived in London a few day ago."

"I see," Beadle Gillingham muttered, still glaring at Matthew. "Your establishment is on Fleet Street, you say?"

"Yes sir," Matthew answered. "Above Mrs Crawley's pie shop."

The Beadle nodded appreciatively. "Excellent to hear, Mr Grantham. You will surely see _me_ there before the week is out."

The pieces were finally falling into place. "You'll be most welcome there, Beadle Gillingham," Matthew smiled. "I guarantee you, without any charge, the closest shave you will ever know."

With a tooth smile, the Beadle tipped his hat in farewell and strolled away, disappearing into the crowd.

"Before the week is out, he said?" Mary said, taking Matthew's arm and leading him out of the market square. "My, this is moving rather fast."

"The sooner, the better," Matthew replied.


	6. The Girl in the Judge's House

Chapter Six – The Girl in the Judge's House

As a young sailor who had travelled to nearly every corner of the world, Tom Branson prided himself on being a good navigator. But staring at his copy of Baedeker's London, he was starting to feel rather useless at navigating large cities. He wondered if he had in fact been circling the same few blocks for the past hour – all the houses and people looked rather the same.

Ever since he disembarked from the same ship that Matthew Crawley had been on, he'd been boarding at a cheap room by the docks, waiting for another calling to get on a ship sailing to India or China. In the meantime, he'd decided to properly re-acquaint himself with the city. That was easier said than done, it seemed, as he was having more trouble than he thought he should as he wound around streets trying to find Hyde Park. It _looked_ large on the faded map, but for all he knew, he wasn't anywhere close to it.

Tom hadn't been to this part of London before, where all the rich folks lived and paraded themselves about. He decided he needed to get his bearings, and sat down on a bench outside of a row of stately-looking homes. He was attracting quite a few stares, which he attributed to his unkempt clothing and his worn-out Baedeker, so he didn't dare ask any of them for directions. Probably his best option now would be to find his way back to his room at the docks and try again tomorrow – if he could find the docks again. He realised he couldn't smell the river at all from here.

"Sir? Are you lost, sir?"

Tom didn't realise that the woman's voice was calling out for _him_ – he wasn't used to being referred to as 'sir.' He looked around, but no one on the street had stopped close by to him.

He heard a tapping on a windowsill and noticed, in the large house across the road, a young woman poking her head out of a sitting room window. She quite pretty, Tom thought, a bright face in the middle of this dreary city. He felt his insides flutter as he crossed the street and stood underneath the window.

"Hello there," the young woman said, barely above the whisper. Tom was too low to see if there was anyone else in the sitting room behind her.

"Hello," Tom replied, smiling.

"I'm sorry, but you looked a bit lost to me," the lady said. "Do you need help getting somewhere?"

"No – yes – maybe, I – could—" Tom stammered. The woman giggled slightly, but corrected herself quickly.

"I mean, I was looking for Hyde Park," Tom explained. "I keep getting lost. I've never been around this part of London." He lifted up his Baedeker, and she took it, opening up to the page that depicted Hyde Park. Her eyes scanned the whole page with a strange fascination, like a child looking at a picture book.

"London _is_ rather large," she agreed. "I haven't been further than a few blocks from this house in a long time."

She sounded wistful, and she continued looking at the map with great interest. "But you do have a very nice house," Tom said.

Nice was an artificial definition. The exterior of the mansion was grand – someone important must live here with the young woman, or maybe she was someone important herself. But through the windows the rooms appeared gloomy and lifeless. Tom was curious about who this lady was and who she lived with, because it didn't seem right to him that a someone with such a bright smile could live alone in such a dreary house.

"It's not really mine – I've only lived in it for a few years," she sighed. "I used to live on my own, but this judge came and took me here to live with him. To keep me safe from the world, he said."

Tom thought that to be rather backwards logic, coming from a judge. He knew that there was plenty of danger in the world, and no matter how hard anyone tried, you couldn't escape it completely. "Why not leave? Why can't you go back to where you used to live?"

"I can't leave this house without him knowing," the woman told him. "And besides, he said if I did try to leave, he'd do something horrible to my family."

Tom's jaw hung open. "He's keeping you captive."

The woman nodded sadly. "I don't know why, but I don't want anything to happen to them, wherever they are. And he's said he'll make me a proper lady if I stay with him, but all I want is to go back to the hospital, where I was studying nursing before he took me."

"You wanted to be a nurse?" Tom asked.

"Yes, and I quite enjoyed it," the woman said, sounding cheerful again. "It's not a glamourous job, I know, but I felt like I was doing some real good in the world. If only I could go back to it, instead of sitting here like a bird in a cage."

She must have heard a noise from inside the house, for her head whipped around then to look behind her, a fearful expression on her face. "I shouldn't be talking to you," she whispered. She handed the Baedeker back to him. "Take a right, then a left, and straight on down that large road. That's how to get to the park from here."

She straightened up and was about to close the window, but Tom quickly cried, "Wait! Can you tell me your name too?"

"Sybil," the lady answered.

"My name is Tom Branson," Tom replied.

Sybil smiled as she hastily shut the window and retreated to another part of the sitting room where Tom couldn't see. He backed away from the mansion, trying to get one last glimpse of her, but it was in vain. He admired that she had wished to help him, even though she implied she wasn't allowed to be talking to strangers, but he feared that she would be in trouble even if the judge only suspected that she had been talking to someone outside.

"Sybil," he repeated, feeling his heart beat harder in his chest. He found himself smitten already, just from standing under the window and talking to her. And he had met her all because he looked lost – of all the strange ways to meet a beautiful young woman! Could he simply have only imagined her?

Sybil did seem like a poor bird in a tiny cage. Tom wondered what she was like before, as a nurse training in one of the hospitals. Hospitals certainly weren't pretty places to work, but from the way she had spoken about it, she must have truly preferred it to her current situation. He couldn't imagined what it must feel like for her, to be trapped in a judge's mansion, unable to leave out of fear for her family. She didn't deserve that, he knew. Whatever this judge's reasons for keeping her here, they weren't good enough to hold a young woman against her will.

Tom was about to set off on his way down the street when he heard the heavy front doors to the mansion creak open. He turned around, half-expecting Sybil, but it was a tall, unfamiliar man who stood in the doorway instead.

A lump formed in Tom's throat – was this the judge who was holding Sybil captive? He didn't look like any old judge Tom would have envisioned, and he was as finely dressed as a nobleman, but who else could he be, if not the owner of Sybil's cage?

The Judge was looking right at him, and Tom froze, afraid that he would come at him and accuse him of talking to Sybil, or worse. But instead the Judge beckoned him closer with one hand, commanding gently, "Come inside, lad."

The warm tone didn't assuage Tom's fears, but he did as the Judge ordered him, slowly walking towards the house like a dog knowing he was going to be hurt. He knew there was no way this couldn't be about him talking to Sybil. If Sybil was punished because of him, Tom wouldn't forgive himself for being responsible.

Even when he stepped into the foyer, the Judge didn't hint at his true purpose of inviting Tom into his house. He motioned for Tom to follow him through the dim house into what Tom believed to be a private library. He felt himself shaking slightly – if this Judge was capable of imprisoning an innocent young woman, what else could he do to Tom inside his own home?

"Sit down, lad," the Judge said, pointing to a large armchair. Tom nodded his thanks, and sat down in it cautiously as though spikes might poke through the leather. The Judge did not take a seat for himself.

"I saw you outside, looking a bit lost and tired," he said. "I thought I might aid you, and offer you my hospitality as well."

"Thank you, your honour," Tom answered as calmly as he could. "That's – er, very kind of you."

The Judge unstopped a decanter, and Tom couldn't prevent his stomach from lurching at the thought of poison in the drink. But he relaxed a little when the Judge poured out two snifters of brandy and handed one to Tom, then taking a swig from his own. Still, he didn't drink out of his just yet.

"You were looking for Hyde Park, you say? Lovely place," the Judge said, and Tom realized that he had to have heard the conversation between him and Sybil.

"Y-yes sir," Tom said.

The Judge looked at Tom quizzically. "Forgive me, but I assume you are a sailor, yes?"

Tom nodded. "I know, it seems silly for a sailor to lose his way."

"Oh no, I understand," the Judge responded. He sounded like he was talking to an old friend. "London is quite a complicated city. Even _I_ get bewildered sometimes."

Tom nodded again, still not certain what the Judge had up his sleeve. He set his snifter of brandy on the table next to his armchair. "It's very kind of you to invite me in, but I don't want to – er, intrude for too long."

"No, no, don't worry lad, it's not an intrusion," the Judge objected. "How long have you been in London?"

"Not long," Tom said. "I wanted to explore the city while I'm here."

The Judge smiled, but Tom wasn't made easy by it. "It must be quite exciting to sail around the globe, visiting all the exotic countries, learning the ways of the world."

Tom gulped. "Yes it is, sir."

"You must be quite practised in them," the Judge continued, beginning to sound more dangerous now. "The ways of the world, I mean."

Not sure what the Judge was referring to by 'the ways of the world,' all Tom could muster was a perplexed, "Sir?"

"And as a young man who has grown used to … engaging … in such exotic practises, you must be unable to suppress your urges." The Judge turned away from the baffled Tom and went over to one of the bookcases in the room. His fingers ran across the leather-bound volumes. "I too know of such practises. I have all their depictions here, quite well illustrated I must say."

He pulled one book out from the shelf. "Would you like to see? I think you'd find this one to be of great interest."

Tom realized what he suspected of him, his possible intentions of talking with Sybil. The very perversion of the Judge's subtle accusation disgusted him to his core. "There's been a mistake, sir—"

"Has there?" The Judge lifted an eyebrow. "I beg to disagree."

"She was only helping me," Tom explained. "I meant nothing more."

The Judge would not be swayed simply by his word. "What you _may_ have meant is irrelevant," the Judge said, his cold voice laced with venom. "You inquired into her private life, made her feel unsafe in the privacy of her own home—"

This man was worse than Tom had initially believed. He wasn't keeping Sybil here because of some misguided sense of what safety was – it was perversion. Tom shot up from the armchair angrily. "She wasn't uncomfortable, she wanted to—!"

"Do you think you know what my dear ward Sybil feels? You don't know her like I do," the Judge scoffed.

"You keep her in a cage!" Tom shouted. "You took her away from the life she wanted!"

The Judge lunged for Tom, who deftly evaded him. "I try to keep her safe from gandering wretches like you. Sybil is an innocent woman, and she will not be sullied by the likes of you!"

"What, so you can sully her instead?" Tom growled. The Judge attempted to strike him, but he danced backwards just in time to avoid a broken nose. "If she's innocent, why do you keep her locked up?"

"Beadle Gillingham!" the Judge roared, and almost instantly the doors to the library opened. The Beadle, with a walking stick that Tom discerned to be a billy club, entered. "Yes, Judge Talbot."

"This young man is ready to be on his way, please see him out," Judge Talbot said. Glaring directly at Tom, he added, "And I warn you, Tom Branson, if I ever see you on this street again, you will rue the day you set foot in this city."

With a nod from the Judge, Beadle Gillingham roughly grabbed for Tom's arm, hauling him into the corridor. Tom barely had time to regain his footing before he was thrown out into the courtyard next to the house, right on the cold stone pavement. His knees buckled.

"The young lady gave you directions to Hyde Park, didn't she?" he heard Beadle Gillingham said. "I trust you can remember them."

Tom heard the swing of the billy club a second before he felt it slam into his kidneys. "Off with you now," the Beadle said over Tom's groans. "You heard what Judge Talbot said. Next time he sees you, your brains will be all over this pavement."

He tossed the Baedeker next to Tom, still doubled over on the stone, before returning inside and slamming the door.

Eventually, Tom carefully pulled himself to his feet, clutching his side as he tried to walk. He had to lean against the wall of the alley that led to the street, but he hobbled as quickly as he was able to until he reached the pavement. If he lingered for too long, he thought, the Beadle might come back with his billy club and fulfill his vow to bash his brains.

"Those bastards," he muttered. "Those sick, sick bastards."

What would the Judge do to Sybil? He couldn't bear the horrid thought of the corrupt man inflicting an unwarranted punishment upon her – and all because she offered to help Tom. How could a judge have such a sick sense of what was fair?

He trudged into the grey sunlight, leaning against the iron fence to catch his breath. Gazing back at the mansion, he thought he saw a figure move behind a curtained room on the upper floor. Was it her—?

The window there opened a tiny crack, and a small hand – Sybil's hand – shoved something outside. Tom heard whatever she had dropped clink on the pavement in front of the mansion, and he rushed to find it as she shut the window.

A key – to the house maybe? Or a gate? Tom couldn't tell for certain, but he had no doubt that this was a sign that Sybil wanted his help. She needed it.

He looked back up at the window where he had seen her; the curtains were drawn and he could see no movement behind it.

"Don't worry, Sybil," he said softly. "I'll come back for you. I'll steal you away from this place."

Judge Talbot imprisoned Sybil against her will, spied on her, forbade her from speaking to strangers, threatened her family if she ran away – how could Tom not feel the urge to break back into the house, sweep her into his arms, and run off someplace where they couldn't find her? He felt her agony, her desire for freedom as if _he_ were the one being held captive.

He couldn't leave London while she was still here. Until she was away from the wicked Judge and his Beadle, he wouldn't dare think about leaving the city. He must be the only one who knew of her plight, and so had to do whatever he could to set her free, to give her back her life.

"I promise you, Sybil," he swore as he gazed at the sitting room window, "I'm going to get you out of there."

* * *

Every day the Beadle did not turn up at the barber shop door, Matthew felt his patience dwindle a little bit more.

His shop was ready for business, though it still didn't look as prepossessing as it had in years past. There wasn't much in the room, only what he would need to perform a shave: a storage chest for aprons and towels, the counter with tonsorial bottles and instruments (including, of course, his ever-sharp razors), a pail and mop in the corner, and a tatty parlour chair that had sat under a sheet during his absence.

"I'll grant it's not a proper chair, but I'm sure it'll do for now," Mary said as she repositioned it.

Matthew was standing at the window, looking down onto the street below, hoping that one of the people strolling by might be Beadle Gillingham. "It's fine," he answered absently.

Mary looked at him with a sour glare as she tossed herself into the parlour chair. "Oh, do stop brooding and come away from the window. He's not going to come any sooner with you watching for him like a hawk."

"He said he'd come before the week is out," Matthew reminded her. "He must have meant it, surely. So why hasn't he come yet?"

"The week isn't out just yet," Mary said. "He's still got a few days."

Matthew knew he was being irritable, but after so many years of waiting he could finally feel revenge within his grasp, and every day that the Beadle did not show up felt like another year passing. "If the Beadle doesn't come, then the Judge won't come," he explained. "And the so the both of them will still be walking the streets like innocent men."

Mary sighed. "I know you're doing this all for me, darling, but I don't want you to fret about it day and night. We'll get to them soon, we just have to be patient. Good things come to those who wait, you know."

"I thought you were on my side for this, Mary."

"Of course I'm on your side for this." Mary got up from the chair and stood behind Matthew, encircling her arms around him. He was still staring out the window, but she saw her words had calmed him; his eyes were not so intensely fixated on the passerby now. "This is for you just as much as you say this is for me," she murmured. "But I just don't want you to distress yourself over it. The Beadle _will_ come, I know it. If only just to leer at me again for a moment."

Matthew was about to say that he wouldn't let the Beadle steel one more lewd look at Mary, but he stopped short at the sound of the wooden stairs outside creaking under the weight of somebody's hurried footsteps. Was it the Beadle finally? He bolted away from Mary just as he heard the bell by the door ring, standing by the counter where his razors lay ready.

"Come in," he called out.

The door swung open. It was not Beadle Gillingham who entered, but Tom Branson.

"Mr Crawley?" he called out breathlessly.

It was both a relief and a disappointment to Matthew. "I thought I told you to call me Matthew," he said, approaching Tom with a welcoming smile.

"Thank God I've found you!" Tom looked rather weary, as if he had traversed the entire city. "I knew I must be at the right place when I saw the name above the pie shop."

Mary arched her brow. "Who are you?" she asked, looking Tom up and down.

"This is Tom Branson," Matthew explained. "He was my companion on the ship that brought me back to London. Tom, this is my wife, Mary."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Tom greeted Mary. "I suppose that explains why it's 'Mrs Crawley's Pie Shop' above the door."

Mary nodded shortly. Matthew gestured for Tom to sit down; the poor man hadn't completely caught his breath, and he seemed to be in pain on one side of his ribs. "What's happened to you? Are you in trouble?"

Tom shook his head as he collapsed in the parlour chair. "It's not me who's in trouble. But you're the only one I know in London, and I didn't dare go to the police." He took a deep, though pained, breath. "See, there's a young lady I met earlier – she's the most beautiful, and kindest girl I've met anywhere, and she was the only one who wanted to help me when I was lost."

"She sounds like a lovely woman," Matthew concurred.

"Oh she is." Tom's besotted expression quickly turned grim, however. "But she's in a horrible situation. She's practically held prisoner in some judge's house, and I – I got into a lot of trouble simply for talking to her." He patted his side where he had been struck by the Beadle's billy club. "And she can't leave on her own because the judge threatened to hurt her family. Before I left, though, she gave me this."

He reached into his jacket and produced a key. "I know it's a sign that she wants me to help her. I _have_ to help her get away from that house and that horrid man. If I could get Sybil out while—"

"Sybil?" Mary gasped.

"Yes, that's her name," Tom said.

Mary grabbed Tom's shoulders, nearly shouting in his face. "Is her name Sybil Crawley? Tell me!"

"I don't know – she only told me her Christian name," Tom stammered, taken aback by Mary's sudden hysteria. "She had dark brown hair, and eyes like the sea—"

Mary looked just as shocked as she had when Matthew appeared in her pie shop the evening he came home. "It's got to be her. How many other girls have the name Sybil?" She seemed both hopeful and fearful. "Tell me, who's got her locked up?"

"A judge of some sort – his name was Talbot, I think."

Mary stood quite still for a moment, horror flooding her expression, and Matthew stepped towards her in case she might collapse. But she broke free of her stupor and began pacing around the small room, full of a rage that Matthew had never before seen possess her.

"He _did_ have something to do with her going missing! I should have known," she hissed. "I never imagined he'd go after her. How did he even know where she was?"

"Do you know her?" Tom asked.

"She's my sister," Mary answered quickly. She whirled back to face Tom. "What of Edith? Did Sybil mention another sister, another person, someone named Edith?"

"No, she didn't mention anyone else," Tom said.

Mary's face fell. "Well … at least I know where Sybil has been all this time. And she may know where Edith is yet."

Matthew gripped Tom's shoulder. "Do you have a plan to get Sybil out of Talbot's home?"

Tom nodded, though he still looked unsure with himself. "I was thinking, that once the Judge is at court, I could sneak into the house and convince her to come to me. I'd need someplace to hide her while I find a ship to take us someplace – back to Dublin, maybe. As I said before, I don't know anyone else in London except for you. I was hoping – if you'd allow it – that I might bring Sybil here, just to keep her safe for a little while until we're ready to leave?"

"Yes, of course!" Mary burst out. "We'll keep her here as long as you need."

Matthew was inclined to agree. "Yes, bring her here."

Tom stood up quickly, wincing slightly at the pain in his side. "Thank you so much, Matthew, and you as well Mary. I'm in your debt now. Once I tell Sybil I know her family, I'm sure she'll come straight here."

"But are you certain you can get her out of there without being caught?" Matthew asked. "And if Talbot were to make good on his word and … come after her family … he knows where we live, and if he were to catch her again—"

He stopped himself, remembering his sharpened razors lying on the countertop. "No, never mind that. If he comes, we'll deal with him. Just bring Sybil here, and we'll keep safe and sound."

Tom's smile was bright as he took Matthew's hand and shook it vigorously. "I promise, I'll get her out of there without the Judge even suspecting."

"I'm sure you will," Matthew said. "Now, go and get yourself a drink downstairs. A bit of ale might take the edge off that pain in your side."

"Thank you." Tom hurried out of the shop, and Matthew could hear him almost tumble down the wooden stairs. He turned back to Mary, who still looked rather shaken at the news.

"My God – I should have known," Mary whispered. "I can't believe he'd take Sybil. It was _me_ he was always after. I thought he'd let it go after he had his way with me."

Matthew was just as troubled as Mary was at learning Sybil was Judge Talbot's prisoner, and yet it did not seem out of character for him. "He'll never cease to be a perverse, controlling monster," he declared.

"All the more reason to kill him," Mary replied. She slammed her hand down on the windowsill. "Damn him! I'd go straight to the court and wring his bloody neck if I could."

Now, Matthew thought, it was _his_ turn to calm someone down. "Mary, I promised Talbot would die for his crimes against you, and he shall die as well for his crimes against Sybil. And soon she will be returned to you. I trust Tom – he will surely help her escape that cage of a house."

"Before he carries her off across the sea," Mary added bitterly. She didn't like the idea that she'd be reunited with her youngest sister after so many uncertain years, only to have her snatched away again and carried off to a country she had never been to, with a man she hardly knew.

Matthew took her hands in his, hoping he could reassure her. "It is for her safety: she cannot stay in London, and Talbot has friends all across England. Tom will treat her well. He is a good man. And perhaps, when our business with Talbot and Gillingham is finished, she'll come back home."

Matthew sounded absolutely confident that the Irish sailor wouldn't fail, even with Mary voicing her doubts. And he spoke so genuinely that Mary felt there was no other choice but to accept Tom's help. He _had_ promised to free her sister from Talbot's house, or try to, and he was the one who had noticed her plight in the first place. She just couldn't tell if he was brave or foolish for doing something that would surely ignite Talbot's wrath. "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it."

She leaned against the windowsill. "Poor darling Sybil. She had such high hopes about becoming a nurse, working to change how things are in hospitals. She wrote to me that they are dreadful, filthy places, practically morgues …"

Mary paused, peering at something she saw on the street. Matthew tried to follow her gaze – she looked slightly concerned, but too confused for it to be Beadle Gillingham or Judge Talbot.

"That can't be him," Mary mumbled.

"Who?" Matthew asked.

Mary's eyes followed the person in question as they seemingly advanced towards the pie shop. "Oh God, he can't be coming here—"

"Who? Who is it, Mary?" Matthew asked again.

"Evelyn Napier," Mary answered quickly. She moved around to the window at the adjoining wall. "No, he's coming up _here_."

Sure enough, footsteps were heard treading up the wooden staircase. Mary inhaled sharply. "God, what's _he_ doing here? I don't know what he could want."

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," Matthew said, just as Evelyn reached the door, knocking twice. But the only thing he was sure of was that Evelyn had brought trouble.


	7. A Bloody Inconvenience

_Back at uni now, so don't get worried if I don't update for a long while. I had this update ready for a while now, I just didn't remember to actually post it until now (whoops). I hope you enjoy this small chapter and as always, thanks to you who share your thoughts on this fic!_

* * *

Chapter Seven – A Bloody Inconvenience

Matthew unlatched the door, greeting Evelyn Napier with a charming smile. "Mr Napier, how nice of you to come by."

Evelyn shifted uncomfortably. "I'm surprised you remember my name after such a long time. And it has been a very long time, hasn't it … Mr Crawley?"

Matthew's geniality faded in an instant. Evelyn gave him a thin-lipped smile and scoffed. "You thought I wouldn't recognize you, did you?"

Mary stood behind her husband. "Why are you here, Evelyn?"

"It's good to see you too, Mary," Evelyn replied, sounding a bit disappointed that Mary's welcome was hardly welcoming. He shivered as a gust of wind blew past.

"Should we go into the flat to talk?" Matthew suggested before Evelyn could take one step. "Mr Napier, I'm sure you'd appreciate a cup of tea."

The man looked like he'd freeze to death without one. His clothes were probably the same ones he had worn when he was at St Dunstan's marketplace, still frayed and ill fitting. His lips were blue and his whole body shivered. Mary saw what Matthew noticed and immediately softened up.

"That's a good idea," she said, nudging Matthew out the door so she could lock up the shaving parlour.

A few minutes later, and Evelyn was sitting in front of a stoked fire, furiously rubbing his numb hands together. Mary and Matthew stood by the stove, preparing a kettle to boil for tea. Mary seemed even more tense than Matthew, shooting cursory glances towards Evelyn as she rummaged around the cupboards for the tea things.

"What do you think he's here for?" Matthew asked in a low voice.

Mary was still focused on Evelyn, his back towards her. "I have absolutely no idea," she muttered, roughly striking a match to heat the stove. "Something to do with the little spectacle you put on at the market, perhaps."

"As I recall, you were the one that made me get up onto that stage," Matthew replied.

"Yes, and you did brilliant at that," Mary added, "but I honestly can't say why exactly he's here, and more importantly why he was so smug at having recognized you."

Matthew bit his lip – that was what truly concerned him. If Evelyn decided to go out and blather to the entire parish that the man who called himself Grantham was actually Matthew Crawley, Judge Talbot would certainly get wind of it … and then what chance would him or Mary have of avenging the wrongs done to them?

"I wonder what happened to him that he's had to resort to being a swindler's assistant," Mary murmured. "He used to be so well off – his parents knew mine, and for a while I believed he was keen on me. But that was many years ago."

"Do you think he's still keen on you?" Matthew asked.

Mary shrugged. "I don't know – I hope he isn't."

 _She_ certainly had never been keen on him. He was a well-tempered and modest, and she thought him a good man in general, but she never held any romantic feelings for him, and she didn't think him a very interesting person. But what was he like now that he was reduced to poverty? Mary had the feeling that whatever he was going to tell them would not be good for them to hear.

By the time the water had boiled and Mary brought the tea things to the fireplace, Evelyn's blue lips had turned pink again, and he wasn't shivering so violently. He mumbled a thank you as Mary handed him a hot cup of tea. Mary sat down in the chair across from him, but Matthew stood next to the fireplace, where he could clearly see the whole of Evelyn's face.

"I don't wish to be rude, but let's be quick about this, Evelyn," Mary said firmly. "Why did you come here?"

Evelyn set his cup down on the side table. "It's been years since we last saw each other, Mary – I thought you'd be glad to see an old friend." He looked at Mary resentfully. "Unless my financial situation has sullied me in your eyes."

"Please don't be like that!" Mary said incredulously. "And don't try to worm your way out of whatever you're doing. You obviously knew where my shop was, you could have come by anytime you like. Instead, you came back shortly—"

"Shortly after you and your husband made an appearance at St. Dunstan's market together," Evelyn interjected. "I was surprised to see you out and about on a busy day, and with your husband next to you. Of course, he was much changed from the last time I saw him – my apologies for being blunt, Mr Crawley – but I could see who he really was once he got up onto Barrow's stage and showed off his skill. You are still exceptional, Mr Crawley, I must commend you."

Matthew nodded shortly. Evelyn picked up his teacup again, but he did not take a sip as he continued talking.

"I was surprised that not even the Beadle recognized you. Either everyone in this city has gone blind or they're all incredibly dim. You might as well thank me that I didn't reveal you to everyone right then and there."

"Why were you even there in the first place?" Mary asked. "Last time I saw you, you were living in Kensington as the heir of your father's fortune. How in the world did you end up like _this_?"

Evelyn sighed ruefully. "It happened only a couple of years ago; I reckon Matthew was gone then. My father ran into too many legal troubles and owed too many men money. He had made a couple enemies, and when the fortune was all gone we couldn't even get a place to live. We were worse than destitute, and we were about to get carted off to the workhouse. I wasn't about to be locked up in there, so I decided I might try and get some work on the street. That's how I got involved as Thomas Barrow's assistant. It wasn't the best of jobs, but he at least paid me and gave me board."

"All things considered, I think you're a lucky man," Matthew said.

Evelyn snorted. "Thanks to you though, now I don't even have him to lean on anymore."

Mary frowned. "What do you mean? Did Barrow let you go?"

Evelyn shook his head. "He's gone off to France, I think," he explained. "Packed up his stores and all and left, just two days after you humiliated him."

"He was a fraud," Matthew insisted.

"Yes, well, now that he's gone and left me, I'm now back to living on my wits," Evelyn said. "I'm back on the streets again, and since he didn't even pay me for the last two weeks, I don't have enough money for both a room and food."

Mary could easily guess why Evelyn had shown up on their doorstep now. "So you've come to us for money?" she asked, voice filled with irritation. "In case you haven't noticed, we don't have much of our own to spare."

"Not yet," Evelyn said. "You've reopened your shaving parlour, albeit under a different name. You'll have customers coming in eventually."

Both Mary and Matthew knew what Evelyn was implying. "So you want a share of the profits?" Mary asked.

"About half, to be exact," Evelyn said simply.

"You can't be serious," Mary said incredulously. Her eyes were wide and her hands gripped the arms of the chair she was sitting in so hard her knuckles turned white. Matthew could see that her own fury overshadowed his own repressed anger.

Evelyn sighed, giving Mary a look that he clearly wanted to evoke sympathy in her. "Mary, surely you are not so halfhearted that you cannot help an old friend."

"Handing over half our income to you is not charity," Mary retorted. "We can give you a few pounds now, but we will certainly not be giving to you any of what we earn."

Evelyn clicked his tongue. "I'm sure you'll change your mind when I tell you what I will do if you don't agree."

Mary froze. "What?" she whispered.

"If you deny me my share," Evelyn went on, "I'll make it known to the whole parish and beyond that you, Matthew, are really Mary Crawley's husband who was sent away and has returned. I know there must be some reason why you are choosing to use a different name, and I suspect it's because you aren't supposed to be here anymore. If the Judge were to find out, well, I can't imagine how horrid the penalty might be."

Mary shot up from her chair and grabbed Evelyn by the shoulders, forcing him against the back of the chair. Matthew stepped forward, speaking her name in a futile attempt to calm her.

"If you think for one minute that we would let you blackmail us—!" Mary snarled.

"Mary, if you were in my situation, you'd understand what I need to do," Evelyn entreated. "Desperate times call for desperate measures, you know that."

"I don't believe blackmail is a measure that even you would have to resort to just to survive," Mary snapped. She gripped Evelyn's shoulders so hard that Evelyn had to clench his teeth to keep from groaning.

"Mary please, let the man go," Matthew said. There had to be a better way to discourage Evelyn than breaking his shoulders.

Reluctantly Mary released Evelyn, backing away from him and standing by the fireplace with her arms folded. Matthew stood in front of Evelyn, telling him firmly, "We'll give you some money now, but you have to promise never to come here again. Do you understand?"

Evelyn shook his head. He stood up, straightening himself up as much as he could and lifting his chin up arrogantly. "I'm afraid I don't. I stand by my final offer. Either you promise me half your income – in writing, preferably – or I go knocking on the Judge's door myself and spilling all of your secrets. I'm sorry Mr Crawley, but there's really no way around this, not unless you want to be found out. I have debts to pay and you have your identity to keep secret."

The man wasn't so cunning the last time he met him, Matthew thought. While he was still respectable, he must have had some interactions with men seedier than he was, and now to get what he wanted he was drawing inspiration from those interactions. But no matter how many threats he made, Matthew couldn't let him win. There had to be something that would make Evelyn quit his nonsense.

"If it were only me here, I would immediately acquiesce to your demand," Matthew replied. "But I will not allow you to deprive my wife of the livelihood she deserves, especially not after everything she's already been through. You take the pounds that I give you now, and nothing more, and then you'll leave us alone." When Evelyn stayed silent, he added, "if you have any ounce of admiration for Mary, you'll go. Do it for Mary's sake."

"Yes, go for my sake," Mary cut in.

Evelyn faltered slightly. "Oh Mary … why must you always act so uncaring towards me?" He brushed past Matthew to get closer to Mary. "I've only held the greatest love for you, and I did not object when you gave your attentions to another man. So why, even though I've never sought you out until today, why do you deny me help?"

"Because I don't give in to blackmail, and I don't owe you anything," Mary retorted. "And I don't care how cold it makes me seem. You are a cad for thinking that you could steal from us!"

Evelyn took in a shaky breath, but he composed himself as best he could, trying to appear unfazed. "Well then. Thank you for the tea. I suppose now I'll have to figure out some way to repay my father's debts," he said slowly. He looked between Mary and Matthew, as if to give them one last chance to agree to his offer. "For now, though, I think I'll pop off down the street, have a little chat with Judge Talbot and—"

Matthew saw Mary's arm shoot out like a bolt of lightning and grasp the handle of the teapot sitting on the table. He hardly had time to realize what she was about to do before she raised the pot high above her head—

—and sent it crashing down on Evelyn's head.

The powerful force of the blow stunned Evelyn for a moment, and he fell to his knees in a daze. The teapot had shattered into sharp-edged chunks, and Mary held only the broken-off handle. Evelyn blinked, still stunned but slowly coming to. A pained moan escaped him.

"Mary, what in God's name—?" Matthew stammered, alarmed at the sudden violent rage that had consumed Mary.

Before he could hold her back, she rammed the sharp end of the teapot's handle into the base of Evelyn's throat.

The blood got everywhere – spewing across Mary's skirt like a burst pipe, spotting the floor and table and the base of the fireplace. It seemed like it would never stop gushing out of Evelyn's throat, even with the broken teapot handle still lodged into his flesh. He seemed to remain alive for a few agonizing seconds, his eyes bulging out with horror as they stared up at Mary. When Mary wrenched the handle back, he fell to the floor with a thud, the blood still pooling out of his throat.

Neither Matthew nor Mary spoke for a moment. Mary only placed the bloody handle on the tray with the other, unbroken tea things and carried it to the kitchen. Matthew stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the red puddle seeping across the floorboards. The shards of the teapot were still scattered around him like flower petals.

He managed to tear his eyes away from the cadaver at his feet when the tea things clattered noisily in the washtub. Mary groaned, fruitlessly trying to keep the more fragile pieces from chipping. "I suppose I'll need to go out and buy a whole new tea set."

Matthew looked over to her, baffled by her casual behaviour. He himself was having trouble processing what had just happened before him. "Mary … there is a dead man in front of me ... and all you can think about is a broken tea set."

Mary glanced back at him. "Just … can you help me clean up the teapot, or what's left of it?"

Matthew still didn't move. "I'm a bit more worried about the blood on the floor, to be honest."

"Then get a cloth!" Mary sighed, marching back with a broom.

"Mary!" Matthew stood in front of her, hoping she'd snap back to reality. "Mary, do you see that?" He pointed to Evelyn's corpse. "You just killed a man!"

"Yes, I realize that!" Mary said excitedly. "And he was going to reveal you to Talbot if I hadn't …" She drifted off, glancing down at Evelyn as if what she had done was finally registering in her mind. She frowned at the blood inching across the floorboards. "I hope the wood doesn't stain," she murmured absently.

Matthew stepped away from the body. "I'm going to check if it's leaking down in the pie shop."

He fled the flat and rushed down the stairs. Down in the pie shop he circled around, head craned up to the ceiling, searching for even a single drop of blood. He noticed a dark stain above an area closer to the counter where a couple of day-old pies were sitting; a few droplets had dripped onto the mouldy pies, looking like a watery sauce drizzled on top

Overhead the floorboards creaked again – Mary moving around the corpse. Matthew couldn't believe it: as sudden as a lioness attacking prey, Mary had pounced on Evelyn, swinging the teapot. And then, as she stood over him, digging the broken handle into his throat … she hadn't hesitated. It was no accident that she had killed him. There was no way it was a mistake, that she had only intended to knock him unconscious. She had _meant_ to kill him.

Evelyn had sworn to go to the Judge's house and reveal that Matthew had returned to London; he certainly would have done so had Mary not murdered him. She had acted to save themselves.

Matthew returned upstairs to the flat. Mary was already beginning to mop up the blood around Evelyn. "It's not too bad down there," Matthew told her, "but we have to be quick."

"Use the cloths over in the corner there, that'll help a bit," Mary instructed him.

Together they managed to sop up most of the blood, though there was still a rusty stain that would have to be thoroughly scrubbed out tomorrow – it was too dark now. Mary had picked up the bits of broken china from the teapot, so all that was left to take care of was Evelyn's corpse.

"We should move it outside now," Matthew suggested. He really did not want to leave a dead body mouldering away in front of the fireplace overnight. "It's dark enough, no one will see us in the back …. Mary? Mary, are you alright?"

Mary was quietly giggling as she stood over Evelyn's corpse. Matthew frowned, a little wary at her odd behaviour. "Mary, what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, I …" Mary tried to compose herself. "I just can't believe I actually … I actually _killed_ him!" She clutched the dirty cloth she was still holding, and Matthew noticed she hadn't cleaned all the blood off of her hands. "I don't know what came over me then, I was just so angry with him … but I had to do it, didn't I? He would've gone to the Judge and told him you were here." She started to tremble as she looked at Matthew. "Oh Matthew, please don't be upset at me—"

"I'm not upset," Matthew told her, "not at all. I'm only … shocked, that's all."

"Shocked that I could kill a man?"

Matthew nodded sheepishly. "Well, yes, and it _was_ all of a sudden. It gave me a bit of a fright."

Relieved, Mary wrapped her arms around Matthew, pressing her head against his chest as she felt his arms circle round her in turn. "You know me. I hate being predictable."

Matthew could have remained with Mary in his arms for a little while longer, had Evelyn's corpse not been lying but a few inches from their feet. "We really should get rid of him now. The smell isn't particularly pleasant."

"There's an empty crate in the yard," Mary said. She cocked her head, examining Evelyn's body. "I think we can manage him between us, he doesn't seem that heavy. I guess it's lucky he was out on the street – if he were still a gentleman, he'd be a good deal heavier!"

* * *

 _A/N: *Gasp* Mary killed a man! Actually, I'm surprised that didn't happen in canon tbh (as in intentionally, we're still not sure about what the hell happened with Pamuk haha)._


	8. Unwanted Guests

_I know it's been an excruciatingly long time since this was updated, and I'm honestly so sorry that I haven't been as good at updating this story as I have with other fics, but rest assured I won't be abandoning this for the few of you who are reading this. I intend to finish this, even though it won't actually be in a very timely manner. And I apologize for this being a very very short chapter, but I hope the next chapter will be much longer and much more exciting._

 _As always, reviews are appreciated, and thanks for reading!_

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Chapter Eight – Unwanted Guests

The proceedings in court today were going as usual.

Ever the paragon of law and order, Judge Henry Talbot sat high on his bench, dressed in his wig and stiff winged collar. His fingers curled over the edge of the bench as he gazed over the dark and dreary courtroom, eyes resting on the other wig-donning barristers and stony-faced audience sitting before him. He had a perfect view of each criminal brought before him as they stood on a podium right in front of him, and he was close enough to each wretched worm that one steely look could buckle their knees. This courtroom was his kingdom, and every man was his subject, each prisoner helpless against his judgment.

To say that he was in a good mood might sound contradictory, for each proceeding carried out during the day should slowly dishearten any man bearing witness to them. However, Judge Talbot gained great pleasure from these proceedings, announcing sentences to the court and sealing the fate of whatever unfortunate wretch stood before him. Already he had condemned two men to the gallows, one for stealing a butcher's pig, the other for repeated swindling, and another two to rot for life in prison. Beadle Gillingham stood by the grey light of one window, occasionally giving him an approving nod as Judge Talbot announced each grave sentence, but the Judge needed no approval; he was doing his job, upholding the law and, more importantly, making an example out of each and every criminal.

The final proceeding of the day was drawing to a close, and the sentencing was ready to be carried out. All eyes in that cold, dreary courtroom were on the Judge, but the Judge was looking towards the young man on the prisoner's podium, giving him a hard glare that could break the toughest man.

"This is the second time, my good fellow, that you have been brought before my bench," Judge Talbot spoke, his voice echoing throughout the room. "Although it is my sincere desire to mitigate justice for the sake of mercy, it is my duty to uphold the law and spare no one from rightful judgement. Your persistence to a livelihood built on crime and chaos is an abomination to God and society. I must say, I am rather disappointed that you chose your path again even after spending six months in Newgate."

He placed the black cap on top of his wig, doing so as gravely as he could perform. "I sentence Mister Herbert Pelham to hang by the neck until he is dead." Turning to the quivering man at the stand, he added, "And may God have mercy on your soul."

The poor condemned Pelham promptly swooned on the spot, head knocking against the barrier of the stand. It was his ill luck that the blow had not killed him then and there. Judge Talbot could only smirk as prison guards carried Pelham away, and he tossed the black cap onto his desk.

"This court is adjourned," he said, banging the gavel hard on the wood.

Outside the courthouse, now only wearing his normal clothes, Talbot breathed a sigh of satisfaction. _A good day_ , he thought, _the scum of the world heading to where they deserve_. He knew too many judges who were lenient, who let emotion get the better of them, and thus let true judgment slip away. But Talbot knew what was best, and he knew that he was better than most men in London.

As he walked down the steps to the cobblestone courtyard, he heard the Beadle hasten beside him. "Your Honour," Gillingham said reverently, as he always did, "you did excellently today at the proceedings."

Talbot nodded. "Yes, I think I did quite well." Modest words, no matter how false, were always expected of someone of his ranking, even if the Beadle was a close friend.

"Well, I was glad to hear you'd be judging the case of that Pelham fellow. Just the sentence we were hoping for, though I'm sure any other judge would have spared him. What fools …"

Talbot wasn't certain who Gillingham was referring to with 'they' but he nodded nonetheless.

"Although," Gillingham said hesitantly, prompting a wary glance from the Judge. "Although, I was wondering – wasn't the amount of evidence presented to prove is guilt a little … frugal? I would think there would be much more if Pelham was accused of stealing money from a marquess."

Talbot shrugged. "There was no need for more evidence than there already was. I doubt I'd need a single shred of evidence to tell me if he was guilty or not. I can sense truth and lies, know right and wrong without needing 'proof' of the matter."

"Of course, your honour," Gillingham said, "I wasn't doubting your judgement."

Talbot smirked to himself as he said, "Besides, surely he's done _something_ to warrant a hanging. Men like him are usually guilty of something."

Gillingham raised a brow. "Men like him?"

As they reached the street, coaches rattling by, Talbot elaborated. "The lower dredges of society. Men unlike you and me. They are born low and they choose to remain low, resorting to crime and believing they are untouchable. And the ones that do not stand before me do not know what is best for them. Come, walk home with me."

He crossed the street, the Beadle chasing after him. "I find myself often having to inform certain people what they must do to remain on the righteous path," he said as he strode along. "It is up to them to listen, and regretfully some of them are rather stubborn. They do not understand that we are superior to them, and must listen to us as if we were God. I'm sure they wouldn't listen if the Queen herself spoke to them. It is a nasty world we live in, Tony."

"Quite right, your honour," Gillingham agreed. "But much better with a man such as you to pass judgment to the worst criminals."

Talbot walked on silently for a few moments, Gillingham trotting beside him like a loyal dog. "Something on your mind, sir?" Gillingham asked.

"Now that you ask, yes, there is something I have been thinking," Talbot admitted, though he had prepared to tell Tony beforehand. "For a while, I've had been giving some thought to a ... proposition."

"What sort of proposition, sir?"

"As we discussed already, I consider it my duty to do what I can to help the people of this world. Yet what can I do it I cannot shield the people in my own home from the lecherous men in this city?"

Tony's eyes widened, the realization dawning on him. "Sir?"

"My ward Sybil is a lovely young woman, attractive and virtuous, yet because she is only my ward and not married, I fear any man who lays eyes on her might be tempted. And even more I fear she would give in to their licentious demands. So I think it best – in order to protect her from the evils of the world, I have decided to marry Sybil."

Tony blinked; this was very much a surprise for him. "Well then … congratulations, your honour. When is the big day?"

"Well, that hasn't been decided," Talbot explained, "because I have not proposed to Sybil yet. But I plan to, very soon. And then we'll be married as soon as we can, perhaps even the day of the proposal. I already have the marriage documents in my desk at home."

 _The man was prepared_ , Tony thought with admiration. "Will it be a large wedding or a private affair?"

"If we're to marry as soon as possible, I don't imagine many people will attend," Talbot said. "But I will make sure she has a lovely dress, at least. Tailor-made, silk and lace, of the purest white. She'll look fairer than the Queen did on her wedding day."

"And will it be announced in the papers?"

"Of course it will," Talbot snapped, looking at Tony like he was an idiot. "I'm a man of the courts, it would be preposterous for it not to be publicly announced."

A thought occurred to Tony then, one that he was certain the Judge would not like. But he felt it must be said anyway, and he could bear any displeasure coming from the Judge. Tony knew enough to be careful with his words around him, but despite his caution the Judge could still snap like a viper.

"Pardon me, sir," Gillingham started, "but if – when – you marry Sybil, you don't suppose her older sister will … try and put a stop to it? She'll be sure to know if she reads the papers."

"If my memory serves me right, she does read the papers," Talbot murmured with disdain; he found it awfully queer for a woman to be reading. His gait was a bit slower now, as the gears in his brain turned. The wedding ceremony allowed opportunity for any person to give objection to the union. Should Mary attempt it, she could easily rush into the church and halt the ceremony and thus mar the happy day.

Of course, once he was married to Sybil, there would be nothing Mary could do about it.

He always considered it a shame that Mary chose to reject him. But her younger sister was second best, and he had had his way with Mary once already. It would have to suffice. Although … if Mary did come crawling back to him, begging him to have her again, he might not refuse her. Though she would not go without punishment for her coldness.

"I doubt she'll be able to stop it," Talbot said. "Besides, I don't believe she gives much of a thought to her sister Sybil. Not once have they had contact since Sybil became my ward. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if the woman is dead, alone in that wretched little shop."

"She's not dead, as a matter of fact," Gillingham said. "I met her only a few days ago."

A soft, smooth smile graced Talbot's face, yet it could not conceal the diabolical gears still turning in his mind. "Really? How is she?"

"Still cold as ever," Gillingham noted. "There's a new tenant in the old shaving parlour above her shop, did you know? A Mr Grantham, recently moved in to start his business."

Talbot's eyes narrowed. "Someone has finally moved into that dismal little shop?"

"Yes, and if I may say so, sir," Gillingham went on, "he has good skill. I saw a demonstration at the market and he is quite unlike most barbers in this city. I know of only one other man who could shave a face as cleanly as he did, and – well, you sent him to rot at the end of the world," he said with a snigger. "I am considering going to him myself soon."

"Are you?"

Gillingham nodded. "Perhaps you should go too, before you make your proposal to Sybil. A smooth face and a dash of cologne will surely inspire her to accept."

"I have no doubt she will accept anyway," Talbot said. "It will not bode well for her if she doesn't."

As they rounded a corner, he rubbed his chin. "But perhaps I could use a professional shave. I don't suppose it could hurt at all."

Gillingham grinned like a confidence man swindling a naive person. "Excellent. Shall we go together? I believe I myself could do with a professional shave."

"Why not?" Talbot murmured. "I shall enjoy seeing if this Mr Grantham is as skilled as you say he is."

And he'd be able to see Mary again if he went. It was an opportunity worth taking. One last chance for Mary to give in before he tied the knot with Sybil.

* * *

The smell of Evelyn Napier's blood in the flat was still lingering after a couple of days, but it was leagues better than the stench of his corpse tucked into a crate in the courtyard. Mary had to hold her nose every time she went outside and up the stairs, and she didn't want to imagine what his decaying body looked like now.

 _No one to blame but himself_ , she thought every time she glanced at that crate. She had done what she had to, and while she did not regret killing him, she deeply regretted making a mess of it. Strangling him or pushing him into the fireplace would have made far less of a mess. The blood stains on the wood floor might never come out entirely. And now they didn't have a proper teapot either; the iron kettle was a poor subsitute, and it too still smelled vaguely of blood.

Briefly Mary wondered if she should have acted differently, but she had to concede there was no alternative. As soon as Evelyn Napier had mentioned going to see Judge Talbot, she had had no time to think. There was no more reasoning with him; killing him would be the only thing to stop him. She was disappointed in Napier – she had thought him a better man than a blackmailer – but ultimately it was probably best that the poor man wasn't living a miserable life. Death was a mercy compared to living in a workhouse. She'd heard enough horrible stories about those places, mothers separated from their children, rats and fleas in every corner, disease more common than a hot meal. She was glad she still had the shop and enough money for food, else a workhouse might have been the only shelter in London for her.

"We ought to get rid of it soon – Napier's body, I mean," she noted when she came back into the flat. "The stench will drive any customers away. We can pay someone to go and dump it in the river."

Matthew, sitting in a chair by the window, kept his eyes on the street as he replied, "They may look inside the crate and warn the police. I'll take it to the river myself when it gets dark."

"Thank you," Mary sighed. "I have a feeling the smell is only to get worse."

She walked over to Matthew, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "Are you still waiting for the Beadle?"

"No," Matthew said grimly. "The liar said he would come, and he hasn't. I'm thinking we may have to go to him instead. Him and Talbot."

Mary raised a brow. "If we do that, it will be a lot harder to hide the mess."

"You're right, but …" Matthew lost his train of thought as he spotted two figures walking across the street, towards the pie shop. They were better dressed than most of the people who walked down Fleet street. Both were tall; one carried a billy stick and the other—

"Oh my god," Mary breathed, looking at the same two people Matthew had spotted. "No, it can't be … it's him!"

Matthew didn't need to ask who she meant, because he recognized who it was as well. He felt rage, an alien feeling for him, boiling inside him, but he told himself to remain calm. He focused his attention to Mary, who was still staring out the window with wide eyes and shaky hands. But Mary didn't seem to be shaking with fright – it was with the same rage that Matthew was trying hard to quell.

"Oh God … Gillingham didn't mention anything about both of them coming at the same time, did he?" She took another quick glance out the window, then immediately looked away again. "I don't like this at all. Oh God, what if Talbot recognizes you?"

"He won't," Matthew tried to assure her, though he was only half-certain Talbot would in fact not recognize him. "Mary, stay here in the flat, I'll go into the shop—"

"No! You aren't facing him alone," Mary implored. Her nervous demeanour had completely shifted to one of grave determination. "We are doing this together. I can handle myself."

"I know you can," Matthew said. "You are a strong woman, the strongest I've ever known, but if—"

"No 'ifs', Matthew. I am going to stay in the shop with you, for as long as he is in there," Mary said decisively. "I won't let you face Talbot alone."

Matthew nodded. "Alright. We need to go now and get into the shop before they see us. They might suspect something if they see us exit the flat together."

He opened the door, letting Mary out before locking it behind him. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Talbot and Gillingham enter the yard just as he shut the shaving parlour door. It would not be long now. Soon, in less than a minute, they'd be inside the parlour.

"What do we do now?" Mary asked in a half-whisper. The two men would be walking up the steps in a matter of seconds, they hardly had enough time to discuss a plan.

"We need to take our time," Matthew decided, hurriedly gathering his tools on the sideboard. The razors, although always sharp, were lying by the leather strop, ready to be whetted. "If one of them decides to sit and wait here, we can't simply kill the other outright. He may rush out and call for the police, and there are too many people on the street."

Outside, the wooden steps creaked under the weight of two men. They were slow, threatening steps, as if they were the ones armed with sharp weapons intended to maim and murder. The smack of the Beadle's billy stick against the steps would strike fear into most men's' hearts, but neither Matthew nor Mary were scared. Any fear they might have had was turned into grim resolution, the resolution that their revenge would be had very soon.

"Matthew, please just promise me one thing."

"Yes?"

Her eyes were pleading and her tone was serious. "Promise me that _I_ will be the one to kill Talbot."

Matthew did not hesitate to answer her. "I promise."

The bell rang as the door swung open.


End file.
